A Long way to Holmes
by Sophia Banks
Summary: Lillian Holmes had never thought about her mother who was "passed on", but when she saw a picture of her mum on her wedding day she became surprisingly curious. So she got her father to talk about her.-Short stories detailing the relationship between Mycroft Holmes and Isabelle Long, from their first meeting-to Isabelle's death.(No smut, Just good ol' romance)MycroftXOC *Complete!*
1. Prologue

**-Discovering Isabelle Holmes**

Lillian Holmes had never put too much thought to her dead mother-oh _sorry-_ her _passed on_ mother. She had only been a few months old when the woman she hadn't even called _mum_ yet was in a terrible car accident, so why worry?  
She figured that if she had been old enough to remember her mother, then she might sigh every Thursday at Six-O –five PM on the dot (the time and day she died) like her father did, or possess some reason to by "_angsty" _-but she didn't and she wasn't.

It was only on one horrendously boring Tuesday, when Lily snuck into her father's room and saw an _actual picture_ of Isabelle Holmes that she took her mother as a real person. Someone who had lived, rather than some fictional character her father brought up every couple months.  
Slowly she picked up the small framed picture of her mother in her wedding dress, and stared.  
She was sort of plain with a pale freckled face and a small nose. She wasn't especially shapely, in fact she was rather flat chested and with little hips to speak of and besides that- quite tall.  
Lillian found this woman oddly beautiful. She had lively hazel eyes and long chestnut hair that went down to her thighs and a crooked overly large smile as she held out her hand to proudly show off her wedding ring to the camera.

_"Lillian Rosalie-Sophia Holmes."_

Lillian felt cold run down her spine at the drawling aristocratic (and deeply seeded with amusement) voice that belonged to her father -Mycroft Holmes.  
"Ahhh," Lillian said turning slowly to face him. He was standing in the doorway with a rather blank expression on his face, one hand resting on the wooden frame.  
"Ahhh is not a word Lillian," he said coolly as he strode across the room to pluck the frame from his daughter's hand.  
Lily considered making a dash for it (he would never go running after her) but instead sat down upon her father's (quite frankly) enormous bed and stared at her feet with great interest.  
"I was hoping to find…something," she said quietly, a strange feeling rising inside. Usually Lillian would have been defiant and babbling on about how bored she was and how he was entirely unfair for banning her from his room, but she couldn't keep her mind off that picture…off her mother.  
Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow, "That is a very pathetic excuse dearest," he said placing the picture back onto his side table; he then sat himself down next to Lily, fingers twining over his knees.

The teenager toyed with her long blonde (yes, blonde) hair, "Daddy," she said quietly.  
"Yes Lillian?"  
"What was my mother like?"  
This clearly caught her father by surprise and he shifted his position uncomfortably, "What does it matter?" he asked, effectively clearing his throat.  
Lillian shrugged, "I dunno, it just does. I figured I might as well find out at some point," she shrugged, putting no sign of commitment to her question in her voice.  
Mycroft seemed to accept this, sighing softly through his nose.

"I suppose it is cliché to describe her as wonderful, but that is the word I would use…"

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***Now edited**

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	2. Chapter 1- First Meeting

-**First meeting**

"When and where did you first meet?" Lillian asked kicking her legs out and then shoving her feet beneath the bed, her hands resting against the soft cushion of blankets and mattress.  
"It was eighteen years ago," her father replied calmly as he seemed to stare into space, "And it was at a café, she worked there."  
"My mum was a waitress?"

* * *

Isabelle Long toyed with her long chestnut hair as she stared blankly out the window; it was a rather boring day. The café was completely empty of customers and she was alone, not that she would try to talk with her co-workers if they were there.  
She almost didn't even look up when the door opened, "Welcome," she announced, putting on her _Customer service_ voice, something her sister's had taught her to do.  
A man wearing a suit and carrying an umbrella walked towards the counter, "I do believe a muffin of some sort shall do whichever type you'd like to give me," he said staring at the counter.  
Isabelle found herself searching for eye contact; strange for her as she usually was the shy one that didn't like to meet other's gazes. After a few moments she bit her bottom lip and turned around to grab the food.  
With her back turned was when the man was looking at her, she could tell. It was as though lasers were boring through the back of her head; she grabbed the muffin and turned around.

"Blueberry it is…"

His eyes were gray; an empty gray, it sent shivers down her spine. "Here you are," she said snapping out of it, politely placing it into a small paper bag, "five dollars."  
The man pulled the money from his suit coat pocket, "It is dreadfully empty in here," he said as he accepted the food and passed on the money. His voice was sort of aristocratic and drawling but it made Isabelle stutter, "Y-yeah," she agreed, "It's usually empty on Fridays," she flashed a sweet smile.  
The man seemed to think for a moment, "Would you care to join me?" he gestured to a table, "It is unlikely I will finish this," he lifted the bag.  
Alarms went off in Isabelle's head, all of them going _Stranger danger, stranger danger_! and yet she nodded, "Sure."

Isabelle grabbed two plastic forks and followed the stranger to a table where he pulled the Muffin free of its paper bag and placed it on the middle of the table. He accepted a fork before he sat down. Isabelle joined him; she couldn't help but think of him as looking elegant. The way he was sitting with his back straight and his legs crossed at the ankle, his fork poised in his long pale fingers.  
She swallowed air, unsure of what to say, "How are you this fine morning?" she inquired with a soft humored smile, he returned the smile though it seemed forced.  
"Fine."  
"That's good…"  
The young woman brushed back a few hairs with one hand and reached out with the other, her fork slicing into the soft flesh of the muffin. She then pulled the fork back and stuffed the end into her mouth.  
The man followed her lead. After a few moments of silence and chewing, the man put down his fork, "How are your sisters fairing?"  
Isabelle swallowed a mouthful of un-chewed muffin choking a bit the man looked slightly alarmed, Isabelle managed to get the food all the way down and she blinked at the stranger, "They're fine," once again something in her mind was screaming at her to get up and leave.  
"Then I'm correct? _Good._" He said, his voice having taken up a strange sing song quality when at the end of his sentence.  
What was that supposed to mean?  
"You live with them correct? Both older then you and I assume both are bordering on abusive," he hummed to her.

Isabelle's mouth dropped open, "My sisters are not abusive!" she shouted indignantly, her plastic fork slammed onto the table.  
"_Bordering, _and not physically no," the man replied coolly, "But I see that you changed your shirt three to four times this morning, you don't even remotely seem like the kind of person to worry that much about your clothes unless someone prompted you to. You also appeared to have been crying this morning."  
Isabelle tugged at her hair, "That's not-"  
"You clearly think of yourself as a lesser person just going by your demeanor, that of course could come from your parents but considering you live with your sisters," he put his fork down and his gray irises flickered quickly over her, "They want you to cut your hair…"

"Stop it!"

Isabelle stood up, "Th-thank you very much for sharing your breakfast with me but I-I have work to do!" she whipped around and darted into a back room hoping for the man to disappear.  
God, had he been stalking her? The way he talked to her it was as if he could read her like a book! She took in a few calming breaths, her sister's weren't like that! Ok, maybe they gave her a few pointers on how to dress that morning but that didn't mean they were abusive!  
She tugged at her hair as she waited, a tear rolling down her nose. After a short while she heard the bell that rang whenever the door was used.  
Slowly she peaked out and saw the Café once again empty, she walked over to the counter and leaned against it heavily.  
She stared at the door with a strange feeling settling in her stomach, and then her gaze lowered and landed on a small tented piece of paper.  
Curiously she walked across the room and picked it up examining its contents.

**_I apologize deeply for upsetting you; please accept my offer to share another conversation next Friday._**

**_-MH_**

And despite herself, Isabelle found herself smiling! "Yeah, ok," she said to herself, "It's a date."

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	3. Chapter 2- In the Rain

**-In the rain**

Lillian was utterly surprised by her father's forwardness, what had come over him? It couldn't have been _love at first sight _that was just ridiculous and illogical.  
"I was bored," her father said, reading his daughter's expression, "As it turned out, I was finding it harder and harder to stay away from her."

* * *

Isabelle had grown used to boredom accompanying her least busy day of the week, but now the man that had visited her before had become a regular and would arrive every Friday without fail.  
Then they would sit at a table, eat, and talk.  
Somehow she found herself accepting him over and over again despite their strange start, the man never talked about her life as though he knew her again; rather he started asking simple questions. And in return she would ask him, even though she would get vague answers.  
It went on for nearly a month before he suddenly stopped coming. Every Friday she would wait, and every Friday she would be disappointed.  
Isabelle found herself irrationally terrified that he might have been hurt and in a hospital or a ditch somewhere.  
Or something worse!  
Isabelle felt stung, he could have been dead and she didn't even know his name! She knew his initials to be MH, how could she have not asked him his name? '_He's bored of you'_ she thought suddenly and sourly '_he realized what a stupid piece of shit you are, and so he's stopped coming.'  
_Unsurprisingly, her self-hatred came in the voices of her sisters Maria and Gloria.

Slowly she walked across the room to the door, a pair of keys dangling from her fingers in readiness to lock the door behind her. She stared blankly at the outside through the glass of the door and sighed; it was dark and pouring rain_. Great_. She hadn't brought a jacket or an umbrella. "Isabelle you are an idiot," she whispered in a chastising tone.  
Preparing for the rain she reached out to open the door when she suddenly spotted a tall figure holding an open umbrella, barely visible through the gloom.  
"Ah!" exclaimed Isabelle, not knowing anything else to say. She opened the door and dashed outside (quickly locking the door behind her) till she was close to the man. Ice cold rain immediately soaked through her clothes and threatened to drench her thick braid of chestnut hair. Goosebumps stood out on her pale skin, and she was quick to fold her arms over each other.  
The tall figure turned and looked blankly at her, his mouth its usual thin line. Isabelle felt relief wash through her and without warning she ran forwards and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, secretly relishing the warmth of his body. MH made a surprised yelp in the back of his throat, his whole body going rigid.

It didn't take long for Isabelle to realize what she was doing and she pulled away quickly, no longer underneath the safety of the Umbrella she rubbed at her bare arms.  
"Apologies for my absence," the tall man said with an embarrassed clearing of his throat, Isabelle got the feeling that he was just guessing why she had hugged him, "I'm afraid that I had a... personal matter that kept me rather busy."  
"It's alright," Isabelle replied softly, "I was just worried that…Well, that something had happened to you!"  
The man seemed even more taken aback but didn't speak, after a while he stepped closer to her, offering his umbrella as shelter.  
"Thank you," Isabelle said brushing a few damp hairs away from her face. She looked into his empty gray eyes, shining through the dark of night. He was clearly confused, and for some reason that made her feel better about the whole thing.  
"Might I walk you home Miss Long?" he inquired, "Seeing as we are not far from your apartment and I have portable cover," he flashed a thin smile which didn't _quite_ extend to his eyes.  
"Oh, uh…yes, yes you may," Isabelle replied, flustered. MH extended his arm and she cautiously put her hand upon it.  
"I promise you Miss Long, I will not kill you. If I wanted to I would have done so already," MH said, not looking at her but in such a calm voice that Isabelle had no problem believing him.

"I didn't think that you were going to kill me, just kidnap me," she shrugged her thin shoulders, a soft smile growing on her face.  
"Yes well, neither of those things would apply to you…to my enemies on the other hand," he drawled. Isabelle attempted to convince herself that the sincerity in his voice was merely her imagination, but the expression on his face seemed to cement in her mind that he wasn't.

_Who is this man?!_

"Well then, I'm glad I'm not one of your enemies," Isabelle replied, glancing at MH. Speaking of MH…. "It just occurred to me today that I don't even know your name!" she caught sight of her apartment building and so stopped walking.  
The man made a soft "hm" sound, "It seems I neglected to tell you hadn't I," he commented, and Isabelle got the feeling that he had fully intended to wait on telling her.  
"Mycroft Holmes," he put out his hand, long fingers curling around hers as she took it. Isabelle blushed at the connectedness of their hands as they shook, her eyes trailing over his frame without thought.  
"Isabelle Long," she replied, pulling her hand away hastily and tucking it underneath her arm. MH er…Mycroft nodded, "I know."  
"God, don't say things like that," Isabelle yelped stepping back, her brow furrowed, "I keep changing my mind about you; I don't need to do it again!"  
He didn't respond to this, instead he continued to walk which forced Isabelle to follow his lead. Her thoughts swimming as she tried to rationalize why she had insisted upon waiting for this man, he was strange, rather mysterious, rude and insulting!  
But then again, he was also handsome, a gentlemen, and he treated her like a person when he wasn't being rude. He had a smile that when real seemed to light up the room and make Isabelle's heart flutter!

The young woman tensed as Mycroft spoke up again, "This is it, is it not?" he gestured vaguely to the brick building with his free hand.  
She nodded, "Yes that's it, thank you very much for the shelter," she nodded her head in thanks. He smiled ever so slightly…ah, there was that flutter again.  
Isabelle swallowed, pulling together the courage to leave the safety of Mycroft's umbrella. But before she could she was brought in by his voice.  
"Perhaps Miss Long, at some point in this month you would be open to the idea of going on a date with me?"  
Taken by surprise, Isabelle floundered for something to say, "You uh….You want to go on a date with _me_?" she yelped.  
"Considering the only other person I could ask in this situation is myself…" Mycroft said the end of his sentence trailing off sardonically.  
Isabelle blushed furiously, "Look, I appreciate it Mr. Holmes but-I just don't know!" she crossed her arms defiantly.  
The man didn't appear to be put off, he merely shrugged his thin shoulders, "Very well, if you ever change your mind here is my number," he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper with elegantly written numbers on it.  
Isabelle accepted it, staring at the parchment for a few moments, "I will consider it," she said softly. "That is all I ask," Mycroft replied calmly.  
Isabelle smiled softly before she finally left the safety of the umbrella and darted to the door, she turned around in hopes of waving goodbye only to realize that he was no longer there.

"Mysterious indeed," she mumbled to herself, and then she went inside.

* * *

**It would be awesome if you guys had any ideas for this story (Prompts is what they're called, right?)  
****So if you have one, please feel free to leave it in your review, or if you'd prefer-PM me!**

**-Please review**


	4. Chapter 3- First Date? (Part 1)

**-First date…? (Part 1)**

Lily couldn't help but scoff at the whole thing, "That's it? She calls you, you go on the date, and you fall _in love_? That's so boring Daddy!" she announced, crossing her arms.  
Her father couldn't hide a soft chuckle, "It was anything but. To tell the truth-as I _so often do_-the first date could not really be defined as a first date…"

* * *

Isabelle brushed hastily at her tear filled eyes, her back to the large brick apartment building that she called home. Or she would, were she able to get inside.  
Her icy hands were tucked into her jeans pockets, her arms pressed against her sides in hopes of summoning warmth…it wasn't working.  
Absently she wrapped her fingers around her mobile phone, and she considered who she could call. She had no family beyond her sisters, and there was no way they were going to help her.  
She had no friends strong enough to come and help her, especially at this hour of night. And she certainly didn't have a boyfr….  
Without hesitation Isabelle pulled her phone out, pulling off the little piece of paper which she had taped to the back of said phone.  
She dialed the number and anxiously waited as it rang.

"Yes?"

It was a woman's voice, Isabelle tensed her shoulders, "H-hi, I'm calling for Mycroft Holmes…who is this?"  
She could hear the woman on the other end walk, clearly wearing high heeled shoes, "This is his Private Assistant, and how may I _assist_ you?"  
Isabelle felt something inside her relax, "M-my name is Isabelle Long, if you tell him the name I'm sure he'll recognize it…Please, I need to talk to him!" she tried to keep the sob from breaking free, but it was no use.  
The woman (who remained nameless) made a small 'hm' , and Isabelle thought she heard her knock on someone's door, then in a quiet voice say, "Call for you sir, a one-Isabelle Long wishes to speak with you."  
After a few agonizing moments Isabelle was met with the person she had been waiting for. "Miss Long, to what do I owe the pleasure?"  
His tone reminded her of a snake trying to coax in a mouse, and Isabelle greatly considered hanging up and trying for one of her Co-workers.  
And yet she forged on, "I don't mean to bother you Mr. Holmes, b-but I was locked out of my house and I don't have my car keys! My sisters…My sisters refuse to let me back in, and I don't have any money or…or anything!" she was aware that she was babbling, but what else could she do?  
The answer she got had a dangerous edge to it, "Are you hurt in any way?"  
Isabelle shook her head, only to remember that he couldn't see her, "No, I'm fine I'm just…cold, and tired," she sniffled, pressing her free hand against her forehead.

"Remain where you are, I shall be there shortly."

The young woman nodded as he hung up, feeling as though a golf ball had lodged itself in her throat. Had she just made a terrible mistake? While she had known Mycroft Holmes for probably two months now, after their talk in the rain his Friday visits had stopped (Not that she could blame him for being wary of visiting her after that).

It didn't take too long before a black vehicle pulled up in front of her, and a back door opened revealing her savior, "Miss Long?" there was a strange questioning gaze fixed on her, and Isabelle smiled softly despite herself before she climbed into the vehicle.  
The warmth inside made her feel as though she was melting into a puddle, her fingers now able to bend without trouble as she pulled her seatbelt on.  
Mycroft sat next to her adorned in his usual clothing only this time it was a black pinstripe suit with a blood red tie. His umbrella rested sedately against his leg one hand holding tight to the carved wooden handle.  
"Where is it you wish to go Miss Long?" he inquired, still looking at her with a curious expression-reminding Isabelle of a small, shy child that just found a baby animal. She wondered if even he knew why he had come so quickly to her aid or even why he had spent those Fridays with her.

"Oh," she yelped, "I…I'm not sure actually," her brow furrowed, "I would say a hotel but I don't have any money and I can't ask you to pay for me!" she folded her hands on her lap, wishing that she had thought this through a bit more.  
Mycroft hummed in the back of his throat then otherwise sat silent few moments, Isabelle saw his jaw muscles tighten and untighten, grip around his umbrella doing the same before he spoke again.  
"It just so happens Miss Long that I have a spare room at my humble abode," he said finally "If you are not too averse to spending a night in a strange home with a strange man," he gave a good humored smile which didn't stay, "You are most welcome to come home with me."  
Isabelle wondered if he knew how suggestive that last sentence was- probably not.  
"It's only for one night," she said hesitantly, surprised by the offer but afraid to show it, "so I _suppose_ I trust you not to murder me in my sleep…O-or is this your way of kidnapping me Mr. Holmes?" she added a joke on the end to show that she wasn't terribly nervous.  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow in an almost playful manner, "Don't worry Miss Long, I prefer a challenge when I kidnap. And you calling me and having me pick you up, does not seem like a challenge," his grip loosened almost invisibly off of his umbrella.

"Oh my…" Isabelle yelped, unable to think of anything else to say at the moment. She had been expecting a normal house or an apartment building….This was a mansion!  
The young woman grabbed at her seatbelt when a short buzz sounded, and a large gate opened. The car proceeded onto the enormous driveway. Isabelle supposed that she should have expected this, considering Mycroft had his own _personal driver_.  
She glanced at Mycroft who was looking blankly ahead, apparently not noticing her surprise. Taking this somehow as a good sign, the young woman followed his example until the car stopped. He stepped out before her and opened her door cordially for Isabelle to do the same.  
The young woman complied, then following the (still strange) man into his home. The inside was even grander than the outside!

Isabelle's mouth flew open and she quickly pressed her pale hand to it in shock, "It's so beautiful!" she said in barely a whisper, her voice muffled by her palm.  
Mycroft tilted his head slightly, "Is it?" he asked blandly, shoving his hands into his pockets, "To your immediate right is the kitchen, there is nothing poisoned in the refrigerator-take what you like," he continued amiably.  
Isabelle peaked into the surprisingly compact room, it was perfect! Practically everything was pristine from the counters to the floor, not a single dish sat in the sink.  
Isabelle was urged to follow Mycroft through the house (which was equally as immaculate), where on the first floor he showed her: An enormous dining room ("Are those…chess pieces?") two bathrooms, a library the size of her apartment building, and a sitting room (basically just a smaller living room).  
What caught Isabelle's attention was in the sitting room, the enormous bulk of a Grand Piano, a light layer of dust resting on the keys.  
"Do you play?" she inquired, pressing down Middle C and admiring the smooth even sound it made.  
"Not often," Mycroft replied, brushing the smooth surface of the instrument with long pale fingers, "While I will forever be fond of classical music, I have never been quite attached as my brother when it comes to playing," he shrugged detachedly.  
"You have a brother?" unsure why she was so surprised, Isabelle withdrew her hand and tucked it into her pocket.

"Yes, I do."

Isabelle stared at him, though Mycroft was being intentionally vague he suddenly felt more…human, to her. She was about to ask what his brother's name was when he gestured vaguely to the door, "I'll show you where you will be sleeping," he said in a "said the Spider to the Fly" tone of voice that made her shoulders tense.  
Was he doing this on purpose? Or was he naturally creepy?  
At that thought, she smiled, and determinedly followed the Holmes out of the room and up an ornate staircase.  
"My bedroom is through here, obviously," Mycroft said, guiding her through the upper hallway. She looked at the door and found a small sign that said "_Mycroft Holmes- Knock before entry"_  
"If you need anything, there is where I will be. Though I must warn you," he continued, "I am not easy to wake up, once in deep sleep," he grinned slightly, a flash of good humor.  
The young woman nodded, "I promise I won't need anything," she replied, shoving a stray hair behind her ear.

The room she was to sleep in was plain, one large bed sitting on one side, a desk resting in the corner. The blankets were even a dull grayish blue, probably faded with age.  
She bit her bottom lip, "Thank you for uh…letting me stay," she said finally, a sudden chill running down her spine.  
The man beside her made a small hum of acknowledgement, "You're…welcome," his voice faltered, and his brow furrowed over dead gray eyes that matched the blankets.  
"Goodnight Miss Long," he added with a nervous clearing of his throat, and he turned and left for his own room.

* * *

***Edited**

**Unfortunately this was getting too long for my liking (though now that it's on this site it'll seem way shorter lol) and it was also *taking* too long-so this shall be split into two parts. ;)**

**-Please review!**


	5. Chapter 4- First Date? (Part 2)

**First Date…? (Part 2)**

Lily pulled her legs towards her chest, "What…was she to you? At that point I mean," she asked, resting her chin on her knees.  
"The first few months were rather _confusing_ to say the least," her father replied sullenly, "Isabelle had proved to be someone I could read like a book, and yet miss the deeper meaning of every word. I had no idea what she was to me beyond someone I wanted to protect. "  
_How poetic _thought Lillian snidely, and yet she nodded in response, waiting for her father to continue with the story.

* * *

Isabelle couldn't sleep, no matter how hard she tried. She would close her eyes only for them to snap open right away.  
Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of the bed she was laying in, her long hair unceremoniously splayed around her pale face. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence as though a voice would suddenly come from the darkness to say….something. What that something was, she had no idea.  
Tears formed in her eyes, and one freed itself enough to roll down the side of her face. God, she felt so alone!  
Taking a handful of her blanket she wiped at her eyes, "Pull yourself together Isabelle," she mumbled, forcing her eyes to close for the hundredth time.

_Pathetic, absolutely pathetic! If you had kept your mouth shut, you wouldn't be in this situation!_

She flinched at the sound of a door opening nearby and then shoes against hardwood floor. Mycroft was still awake? Quietly she reached out a hand and picked up her phone squinting against the sudden harsh light as it came to life. It read 3:00AM , and she frowned, "Preparing my demise Mr. Holmes?" she whispered to herself jokingly and just as quietly as before.  
Without thinking she pulled the covers off of her bare legs, climbed out of the bed, and set about pulling her jeans back on.  
The light of the hallway was shut off; all she could hear was his footsteps echoing through one of the stairwells.  
Walking slowly across the room, Isabelle opened the door absent mindedly brushing through her hair with her fingers in hopes of appearing presentable. She found herself struggling to see through the darkness, her bare feet making an almost silent _thunk_ against the floor. She paused at the top of the stairs, listening once again for voices. When none came, she carefully descended, pausing every time she found a squeaky stair.  
Eventually she was downstairs, and sought out a light, realizing there was one in the kitchen. Ever quiet she crept towards the doorway, to find the strange scent of heated water rising into steam. She saw Mycroft still wearing the clothes he had been in earlier- except for the pinstripe jacket, leaving a gray vest over a white long sleeved shirt. He was bent over a counter, pouring hot water from a kettle into a pure white mug.

"Is there any way I can help you Miss Long? Or do you plan on watching me from the doorway the whole time?"

Isabelle couldn't hide a gasp; he wasn't even looking at her! Cautiously she entered the room, "I couldn't sleep," she said. He turned around to give her a look that said _"obviously"_.  
"W-what are you making?" she asked, nodding her head towards the cup.  
"Hot chocolate, I find it suits my needs when I can't sleep," he gave her an apologetic smile, "coffee would merely keep me up longer, and I_ detest_ warm milk."  
Isabelle smiled in return, "I think the sugar would keep you up longer too, but I see your point," she brushed a hand across her wrinkled shirt.

For a moment, the two merely looked at each other-struggling for something to say when finally Mycroft broke the silence, "Would you like some?" he gestured with the cup to the kettle.  
With surprising eagerness Isabelle nodded, warmth settling in her stomach, "Yes, thank you," she said softly, pulling out a stool and sitting on it. She watched as he grabbed another mug and filled it with water. He then reached into a different cupboard and pulled out a large tub filled with Chocolaty powder which he generously spooned in.  
Once everything was put away, he offered her the cup.  
"Cheers," Isabelle grinned clinking her cup against his and then sipping it. Immediately she regretted it, "Yow!" she yelped, swallowing down the lava quickly.  
Mycroft couldn't suppress a light chuckle, "It's hot," he warned rather needlessly as he stirred in some of the chocolate with his spoon.  
"Thanks for that, I didn't know," Isabelle replied, her tone sharp though seeded with good humor. Deciding against taking another sip, she lowered the cup onto her knees.

She took in the tired form of Mycroft Holmes, and found a strange fondness build up inside of her. She wanted to know more about him; she wanted to have an _actual date_ with him. The way he held his cup was almost tender, like he feared he was going to break it if he held it too hard-and she wondered _why._  
Instead of asking such a strange question, she opted for something a little closer to home, "What's your favorite color?"  
He stared at her, "Pardon?"  
"If this were a real date, that's what I'd ask," she shrugged softly, "I-I'll be quiet now, sorry," she looked into her cup, blushing red.

"I don't see the point of knowing someone's color preference, but I've always been fond of Emerald Green."

Isabelle looked back up at him, suddenly smiling brightly, "Favorite mythical creature?" she pressed.  
He didn't hesitate, "Dragons."  
The young woman nodded knowingly, "Good choice…What's something you're afraid of?"  
He raised an eyebrow, and she was worried that she might have gone too far. He seemed like someone that wasn't willing to open up about his fears or doubts…But, much to her surprise he simple replied, "Horses."  
"You're afraid of…horses?" What a strange thing to be afraid of, not that she would say so (never insult another's fears) instead she readied another question, "How-"  
"No, now it's my turn," he cut her off, and Isabelle felt the warmth in her stomach suddenly disappear as his gaze swept over her form.  
"You seem to know a lot about me already," she replied, trying to pull his attention back to her eyes.  
His brow furrowed, "Yes…" he said hesitantly, "I haven't _checked up on you_ if that's what you are thinking," he added, sipping from his mug and then setting it aside.  
"Then how did you do it? How did you know about my sisters? That they want me to cut my hair?" she persisted, gripping her own cup tightly.

He sighed, "I deduced. You have heard the word before?" he gave her a look that was one part condescending, another part curious.  
Isabelle wrinkled her nose, "Of course I have," she said defensively, "I own a dictionary and everything," she tapped her finger against her mug in agitation.  
Mycroft nodded, "Then there is nothing more you need to know. I merely have to look at people and see their lives laid out before me. It took me years to truly perfect the act, but it's useful," he drawled, lightly shrugging his shoulders.  
The young woman looked at him with a furrowed brow, "Wow, that's- that's amazing," she said truthfully, "But I don't want you to do that to me ever again, if you can help it. My life is…mine. I can't keep it from Maria or Gloria, but I can keep it from creepy men who kidnap people," she gave a weak smile, a mere lift of the corners of her mouth. It was dropped quickly.

"Then _tell me_ Miss Long,-and forgive me if I'm intruding too deeply- why did your sisters lock you out of your flat?" Mycroft asked, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. Much to Isabelle's surprise, he kept his eyes locked on hers.  
She twiddled with the handle of her mug, "It was my fault," she said after a short pause, suddenly feeling as though a something had lodged itself in her throat, "I talked back to them, they both had a terrible day a-and," she suddenly broke into quiet tears, the lump in her throat growing several sizes, "I'm such an _idiot_! They're never going to let me come back, I don't have enough money for my own flat!" she continued.  
Mycroft looked shocked for approximately half a second, before his expression turned blank. Isabelle barely noticed, lost in emotion she couldn't control.  
"I-I can't live on my own! I'm useless, the only reason I got the job I have is because it doesn't require any skill! I can't do anything. And now I'm crying in front of you, I'm sorry Mycroft!" she curled her legs beneath her.  
"Don't apologize," Mycroft replied softly, and if he noticed the sudden use of his first name, he didn't show it. Isabelle was offered a handkerchief that looked as though it had been ironed until every wrinkle was _obliterated,_ she nodded in thanks before she wiped at her eyes and nose.

She could sense Mycroft's unease, it radiated off of him in waves, despite the forced calm which rested on his features. Could he not allow himself to look even slightly uncomfortable? Without warning to herself or the man before her Isabelle broke into a sort of hiccup-y laugh, sniffling in-between chuckles.  
"What we must look like!" she laughed, "One of us crying, the other staring at her, both of us holding cups of hot chocolate!"  
Mycroft smiled lightly, "Indeed, this is an amazingly accurate example of a perfect first date," he replied sarcastically, "if-I dare even call it that," he added, lifting his chin slightly.  
Isabelle blushed, "I'd say so," she said, her laughter dying down, "I mean, I now know what your favorite color is," she shrugged her narrow shoulders, suddenly realizing that her hot cocoa had gone from lava hot to ice cold in her grip. A thought struck her, and after moments trepidation she added, "When you stopped coming to visit me every Friday, you said it was because of a personal matter. D-did it have something to do with your brother?"  
Mycroft abruptly reached into his vest pocket and removed a golden pocket-watch, "It is going on three thirty in the AM, Miss Long. Perhaps we should go to our respective beds," he spoke quickly simultaneously snapping the watch shut and tucking it back into her pocket.

Surprised by the reaction, Isabelle stuttered to correct herself-but it was too late, he seemed to tune her out. With careful hands he took her cup from her and placed it beside his, "Goodnight Miss Long, sleep well," he said earnestly, and then he left the kitchen.  
Isabelle was left staring at the doorway, "Um, g-goodnight, Mr. Holmes," she yelped, though he was no longer in listening range.  
Had she hit upon a sore topic? _Oh yes_. But so had he when he asked about her sisters! There was something _extremely_ guarded about Mycroft Holmes, The way he kept his emotions hidden from her, the way he steered the conversation towards her, and of course, the way he ended their conversation as soon as she brought up his brother.  
With a soft sigh, the young woman stood up, brushing her pale hands against her jeans to rid them of invisible dirt.

She then reluctantly followed Mycroft's advice, and went to bed.

* * *

The next day quickly seemed like it was much more enjoyable then the one before it. Isabelle woke, pulled on her clothes, and went downstairs to find the dining room smelling of delicious breakfast foods. She entered the large room, disappointed to find that Mycroft wasn't there-but plates of sausages, eggs, a box of Raisin Bran cereal, a jug of milk, and lastly cold biscuits and jam—was. (This, alongside bowls, more plates, and silverware of varying kinds.)  
She saw a note also sitting upon the polished wood and she picked it up, reading the perfect hand of Mycroft Holmes:

_Take what you like, I shall be absent for a few hours. Feel free to explore everything-excluding my office and my room._

_-MH_

Smiling to herself, Isabelle sat down. She took a plate, carefully lifting an egg onto it, whilst also wondering whether Mycroft had cooked it all himself or if he had hired help. Both were rather impressive.  
She stabbed the yoke of the egg with her fork, letting the orange-y yellow substance spill all over the plate.  
She savored the heat and flavor of the breakfast, but felt bad that she could only eat so much of it. When she had finished she heard the front door open, and the tall figure of Mycroft came into her sight.  
His pale skin helped reflect how tired he was, the slight red surrounding his eyes standing out against it. Had he slept at all?

"Good morning Miss Long," he greeted, "I trust you had a pleasant rest," he added cordially, walking towards her. He was a wearing gray suit and a differently shaded red tie which matched a same colored handkerchief folded perfectly inside his breast pocket.  
"I did," Isabelle replied, "I'm sorry I slept in so late, I didn't get a chance to explore," she teased. Mycroft grinned, seemingly in a better mood than the night before.  
The young woman watched as he fully crossed the room and took a seat at the end of the table, taking a bowl and a spoon and then proceeding to fill the bowl with Raisin Bran.  
"You enjoy that kind of cereal?" Isabelle questioned, wrinkling her petit nose. Mycroft scoffed, "Good Lord no," he poured milk into the bowl.

She wasn't given time to dwell upon this answer when he spoke up again, "Oh yes, you will appreciate the fact that your sisters will be coming over to take you home."  
Isabelle's mouth dropped open, "I-w-h-what?" she stuttered dumbly, staring at him in disbelief.  
He smiled warmly at her, pleased about _something_ beyond Maria and Gloria taking her away, "I called them and they promised to pick you up. Is that not what you wanted?" he asked, shoving the spoon laden with bran and hardened raisins into his mouth.  
"Yyyes," Isabelle replied slowly, failing to express into words her genuine confusion.  
"Good, I imagine they will be here soon," he paused, "Giving you enough time to take a comb to your hair," he took in another mouthful.  
Isabelle wasn't sure if she should have been insulted by that or not but she quickly realized that her hair was indeed a large rat's nest of tangles.

She had to wait until Mycroft was finished with breakfast before he was able to locate a comb that might actually work on her thick hair, his own hair was of course far more manageable and sought no need of a regular brush.  
The young woman sighed as she set to work, "I'll at least get the surface hair," she mumbled, feeling self-conscious underneath the gaze of Mycroft.  
"If you need help-" he started, then seemed to catch himself, "I'm sure your sisters will be willing to," he said the last part quickly, clearly placing that sentence in the place of _"I am willing to"_.  
Isabelle couldn't help blush at the sentiment he _almost_ offered to her eventually deciding that she had well and truly lost it.

The silence was suddenly filled with loud banging that echoed through the entire building.

"Ah that must be your family," Mycroft said stiffly, his rather large nose wrinkling at the base. Isabelle nodded mutely, setting the comb aside to follow the strange man to the front door.  
Said door was opened, revealing Maria and Gloria in all their majesty.  
Maria was a short thing, freckles dotting her small nose. Her golden hair was cut close to her scalp, giving her the illusion of having no hair at all in the correct lighting.  
Gloria was taller, though not reaching the great height Isabelle possessed. She had slightly longer hair, colored like mud-with the same freckled nose and thin face as her sisters.  
It wasn't hard to see that they were all related, they all had an excess of forehead, thin lips, and small noses- but it was definitely difficult to see Maria and Gloria as _twins_.

"Hey," greeted Gloria simply, but in a terse tone of voice. Maria picked up where her sister stopped, "We've um…we've come to p-pick you up," she stuttered.  
Isabelle nodded, "I gathered," she replied, "thank you," she added hastily, so as not to bring forth more of their wrath. There was always the chance that they would change their minds.  
Gloria glanced back at Mycroft, who was now standing behind Isabelle, and sucked in a breath, "And we uh, wanted to say sorry! For locking you out of the house…" she clenched her hands into fists.  
"And, you know, calling you a worthless toad," Maria added unhelpfully.  
Isabelle was stunned. They were…apologizing? This was the first time that had ever happened! It hit the young woman like a ton of bricks just _why_ they were apologizing, when both sisters looked behind her again.  
There were light tremors in their hands that they were trying to hide by clenching them into fists, both giving breathing shakily-they were afraid!

Anger welled up inside of Isabelle, and she forced out, "Can you wait in the car? I need to grab something."  
Both girls seemed relieved, "Fine, whatever," spat Gloria as in a last ditch effort to appear uncaring. The two turned and Isabelle watched them climb into Maria's lime green car.  
She closed the door carefully; waiting for the soft click before she spoke in a tone that could have been called a snarl, "What did you say to them?"  
There was a pause where Isabelle allowed herself a few deep breaths to calm herself. Eventually Mycroft spoke, "I don't know what you mean."  
She scoffed, "I thought you were smart," she hissed, "What-did-you-say-to-them?" she turned around slowly, to find him looking blankly at her. Always blank, like he was wearing a mask.

He didn't reply, merely focused his attention on her eyes, perhaps hoping that she would notice this and her anger would ebb-it wasn't going to work.  
"Mr. Holmes, I love my sisters. They might be annoying at times, they might randomly decide to lock me out of the house-but I still love them!" Isabelle continued sharply, "I don't care if you had good intentions in mind- you never threaten my family! The only family I really have _left_ I might add. How could you do something like this?"  
His brow furrowed in confusion, and Isabelle's anger did finally soften, though she still felt hurt, "You're like a child Mr. Holmes, do you know that?" she said quietly, "you don't seem to know the difference between right and wrong."

A look of apprehension immediately crossed Mycroft's features, "Such praise," he spoke sarcastically, clearly stung by her words, "I must speak to you again the next time I want to be analyzed. I did what was best, perhaps my view of right and wrong strays from yours-but they are not harmed. Nor will they ever be by my hands. Do not think for a moment that you _know me, _and that you can compare me to a child!" he crossed his arms in an almost defensive motion, shoulders tense, "Good day, Miss Long."  
The young woman didn't move, her heart beating a strange rhythm in her chest. This was the moment where a decision had to be made:

She could choose to turn and leave-and never see him again.  
Or she could forgive him.

She remembered the night before, and chose the latter.  
"Look, I-I'm sorry. In a way, I appreciate what you did…but right now I'm not sure if I should kiss you, or-o-or _punch _you!"  
He blinked at her, "Pardon?" he yelped, clearly considering the idea of her coming forwards to do either of those things to him.  
"I think I'll do neither," Isabelle added quickly so as to ease his worries. The car honked loudly outside, "I should go," she sighed, "Goodbye Mr. Holmes. I'll call you, and we can set up our second date…ok?"  
Surprised, he nodded, "I uh-yes of course, if you think it safe," he said, tilting his head ever so slightly to the right.  
She nodded, " I do. You confuse me, but I'm up to the challenge. If _you_ are willing to spend time with a worthless toad," she joked earnestly, shrugging.  
Like a flower blooming, he smiled at her, "Yes of course."

The horn honked again.

Isabelle said nothing; she merely nodded to Mycroft and turned to leave.  
The warmth finally settling neatly in her stomach. The relationship had very little likeliness of actually lasting, but she couldn't ignore the connection she had with him.  
He might try to hide it, but he clearly thought of her fondly.

_That fondness will end, like everything else. _She thought darkly, and yet, for the first time-she paid that voice no mind.

* * *

**Raisin Bran is actually my favorite kind of cereal...Mycroft Holmes is hard to write...And I'm pretty sure Isabelle should have dropped him by now. lol**

**On that note, I'm going to make you excited for the next chapter by giving you its title: " Meeting Sherlock Holmes"**


	6. Chapter 5- Meeting Sherlock Holmes

**Meeting Sherlock Holmes-**

Lily rolled her head backwards as her father continued on about the boring world of dating Isabelle, until an idea popped into her mind, "Hey!" she said, making Mycroft raise an eyebrow. Ignoring that she clapped her hands on her lap, "What about Uncle Sherlock, what was it like when she first met him?" she grinned.  
Her father made a small hum of annoyance, and started in a very hesitant manner, "Well…."

* * *

"Stop fidgeting."

Isabelle sighed softly as Mycroft exasperatedly tied her hair into a braid from behind, his long fingers expertly maneuvering large portions of chestnut.  
"Sorry," she apologized without much heart, "I'm nervous," she attempted to look back at her boyfriend but he merely jerked her braid, forcing to her to face forwards.  
"May I remind you Miss Long that this was _your _idea, not mine. So any nervousness you might be feeling is presently your own fault," Mycroft replied in his usual condescending tone.  
"Don't rub it in," Isabelle said quietly, twiddling her shaking fingers. It _had_ been her idea, and of course Mycroft was right. But when she had asked, it had seemed like such a good idea…  
Mycroft suddenly released Isabelle's hair, making the braid slap her hard in the back. She uttered a surprised "oof" and was forced to lean forwards. "_Sorry_," her boyfriend said, not even a hint of real apology in his voice- in fact he sounded strangely smug.

It was sort of weird how close they had become throughout their three (and a half) months of dating, mind you; it took them that long to _kiss for the first time.  
_At one point Mycroft had broken up with her, only to suddenly change his mind…the first time he had ever truly opened up to her.  
Certainly he was still closed off, still wearing the mask, still afraid of a relationship that actually _meant_ something to him, but now Isabelle felt as though it was actually going somewhere.

Still, she had asked for an act of devotion from him to show that he wasn't going to run away like that again…and this was what she got- though he put up a fight against it at first.  
"Are you ready?" Mycroft inquired, tucking his hands into his pants pockets. Isabelle nodded mutely and found herself following him out of the building and into a car which was to take them to _"Two hundred and twenty one B, Baker Street"._

The first thing she noticed about 221B was the clutter; every surface was consumed by one thing or another. What got her attention the most was the skull sitting on the mantel, "Is that real?" she yelped.  
"Yes," Mycroft replied plainly, searching the area for his brother.  
Despite all of this, there was a very homey feel to it, almost unlike Mycroft's empty mansion. Her boyfriend wrinkled his large nose in protest to a strange chemical smell which hung in the air, just barely noticeable. Without warning there followed the loud thunder of someone running down stairs and a strange man came into view… then left as quickly as he came, darting around a corner into a different room.  
"W-was that him?" Isabelle asked, trying to disguise her confusion.  
Mycroft sighed, "Yes it was, give me a moment if you will Miss Long."  
With that, he followed the trail the stranger had taken, and Isabelle could soon hear his voice again.

"Sherlock…Sherlock, answer me."  
"I'm busy Mycroft, if you have a case why don't you just pop it under the door hm?"  
"I'm afraid I can't. I could not very well pop who I brought with me under the door."

There was a pause, footsteps, and then Sherlock's head pooked out from the kitchen to look at her with startling gray eyes, then his head was retracted, "Abusive family members, emotionally rather than physically. In a relationship with someone...she's right handed, as his her boyfriend if her hair is anything to go by. Boring, she's searching for approval-she's not getting it."  
"Do you even know who she is?" Mycroft replied curtly, and Isabelle imagined his grip tightening around his umbrella.  
"I assume a client," Sherlock replied absently.  
"_Oh Sherlock_," Mycroft sighed in a disappointed manner, and soon after he came back into the room with Isabelle, "One….two…three," he mouthed.  
Without warning Sherlock burst back into the room, "What? What am I missing, who is she?" he stepped uncomfortably close to Isabelle's face and looked her over closely.

"Sherlock Holmes, this is Isabelle Long. Miss Long, this is my brother Sherlock," Mycroft said, smiling in his usual "be afraid" manner.  
"Obviously," Sherlock replied sharply, withdrawing from Isabelle and standing near a window.  
"I uh…Hi," Isabelle said, waggling her long fingers.  
"Miss Long works at a Café," Mycroft supplied in the ensuing silence.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Isabelle got the idea that he still had no idea who she was to her boyfriend.  
While he stared at her creepily, Isabelle took in the young man's features- he was tall, thin to the point of unhealthiness, and pale as milk. His eyes were more of an ice blue with different shades mixed in, she discovered, and had untapped energy behind them- whereas Mycroft's felt more like a stormy and almost dead gray.

"So um…what do _you_ do? Mycroft didn't tell me," the young woman inquired politely as she could.  
"Consulting Detective," he rumbled.  
"Really?" Isabelle's eyes widened.  
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, "Yes…Not very intelligent is she?" he shot at his brother, who stiffened visibly. Isabelle blushed bright red, wondering if she should have gone for a better question.

There was silence after that, with Sherlock showing open disdain for her Isabelle's very presence, and Mycroft most likely wishing he hadn't bothered to get up that morning.  
Isabelle decided that this man needed to know who she was, or they would end up getting nowhere. So, taking a deep breath she motioned for her boyfriend to come towards her. Mycroft complied, albeit confusedly until Isabelle was kissing him.  
It was a strange thing, quite wonderful of course, but the size of Mycroft's nose always made it so she had to tilt her head whenever she kissed him (and she imagined doing the same to Sherlock would yield the same problem…not that she would think about that often!)  
Seconds passed before the young woman pulled away, and soon found Sherlock Holmes to have an incredibly startled expression.

Mild concern took over Mycroft's features, "Sherlock?"  
"Her boyfriend is…you. How did I miss it?" Sherlock snapped loudly, "It was blindingly obvious!"  
Isabelle wasn't sure where to go from this, not having received the reaction she had expected. She tucked her hands in her pockets, and smiled her proudest smile.  
"Three months and thirteen days," Mycroft said, sounding bored, "give or take a few hours."  
The younger of the two narrowed his eyes, "And yet you refer to her as _Miss Long_?" he smirked. Isabelle blinked, she hadn't even thought about it until he pointed it out-but Mycroft rarely ever called her by her first name.  
Was he not comfortable enough with her to call her Isabelle?

The elder Holmes cleared his throat uncomfortably, when his phone suddenly rang in his pocket. Relief swept across his features, "Excuse me," he said, and then left the room.  
Isabelle was left alone with Sherlock, who was once again looking her over. "Who are you?" he asked in his deep rather soporific voice.  
"Pardon?" Isabelle questioned confusedly.  
He frowned and stepped closer to her, "Mycroft never introduces his _partners_ to me, nor does he ever look so fondly on them as he does you. He even _braided your hair_!…What makes you so special?"  
"I-I don't know," Isabelle said softly, blushing even more furiously than before, "maybe he's just messing with me," she gave a short lived laugh at her own joke.  
"And in return, why do you like him?" the younger pushed, dark eyebrows lowering over his blue-ish gray eyes.  
"What a stupid question!" Isabelle yelped, "I like him because he's smart, he's funny and sarcastic, he listens to me when I talk, he…he's _Mycroft_, that's why I like him!"  
"How very odd," Sherlock said after a short pause, relaxing as though he had been afraid of her reply, "I shall forever judge you for your decision to date my brother, but I can tell you genuinely enjoy his presence."  
"Um…thank you, I think?" Isabelle replied, suddenly taking a strange liking to this man. He was weird, sort of like a high energy Mycroft and yet, not even close to that at the same time.  
"It was not intended to be a compliment," Sherlock said snidely. Isabelle smiled in reply, "Yes well, I'm taking it as one."

"Miss-er- Isabelle, I'm afraid we have to cut this short. I have business to attend to, and if I am to bring you home…" Mycroft cut in, standing in the doorway.  
"Oh, alright then," Isabelle sighed, "It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes…I mean it," she extended her hand, and Sherlock took it and shook it.  
"And you," he replied, bowing his head slightly.  
Mycroft took this in with both amusement and confusion, but didn't comment. He reached out and clasped Isabelle's hand in his own (another improvement since their first kiss), "Good day Sherlock," he said cordially, before he turned and left-taking Isabelle with him.  
The young woman shot one last look at Sherlock, and wondered why exactly Mycroft was so uncomfortable about talking about him. She would have to grill him later if the topic ever arose.

The two climbed into the comfortable back seat of the black car, which had been waiting outside for them.  
"Well, that went better than I had expected," Mycroft sighed, pulling the seatbelt over him, "I take it that you liked him?"  
Isabelle considered this question for a moment before she smirked, "Of course," she said, "your flittering description of him didn't do him justice though…I hadn't realized he would be that handsome!"

Mycroft went silent after that.

* * *

***Edited**

**Hm, not exactly pleased with this one, but what can'ya do? Sherlock is a bugger to write (that alongside everyone else in this show actually, I should have stuck with something easy!)**

**I've decided that I'm going to name the chapter titles coming up, and the next one is called—**

**"Love at first Dance"**


	7. Chapter 6- Love at first Dance

**-Love at first Dance **

Mycroft had to wait for his daughter to stop laughing before he could continue…it took longer than he would have liked. The fourteen year old grinned as she finally sobered, "So, what happened next?" she questioned, strangely more interested in what he had to say.  
"I'm sure you've gathered enough information on your mother's character, I have work I must return to," her father sighed, and she could see that he was about to stand.  
Thinking fast, the young girl stood up too, "I'll come with you, there's more stuff I need to know," she shrugged in that uncommitted way (which wasn't fooling her father one bit), "So, tell me about a date that wasn't as horrifically boring as the other ones!"

* * *

Getting a date with Mycroft Holmes was an ordeal.

The man had a very set in stone schedule (or "Orbit" as he once puzzlingly called it), and he disliked changing it for anything unless it had to do with either work or Sherlock. And thus Isabelle was forced to wait until he called her, and told her he was open to spending time with her. Needless to say she disliked this a bit, she understood he had a schedule and an important job (whatever it was) but she didn't like how much control he had over everything they did together.

So, she decided to do something about it.

Rather than bringing the subject up with Mycroft, she did the _other_ logical thing. She estimated when he would be free next using earlier knowledge. She decided a restaurant, and then called Mycroft-asking if he was free that day.  
"I… am. Though I had planned next week to be-"  
"I know," Isabelle lied, "I wanted to see you a bit earlier than that. There's a beautiful little restaurant that my mother used to take me to when I was little," she said quickly before she bit her bottom lip, waiting anxiously for the answer.  
Her boyfriend was silent for quite a while before he finally spoke in a syrupy voice, "Yes of course."

She could tell he was bothered by the control being taken away from him so easily, but Isabelle was finding it hard to be sympathetic at that moment.  
She had a right to choose a location and time, and he would just have to deal with it!

* * *

On the day decided, Isabelle stared into a long standing mirror with obvious distaste. Her reflection merely showing her what she had been trying to forget…she was ugly. Her freckles stood out prominently on her pale skin reminding her of a speckled fish, and her lips were far too thin. Her eyes were too big (or small…much too small) for her face, she decided and she had too much forehead.

And yet there was a slight rising of her chin as she took in her thin figure when surrounded by a form fitting green dress. It had a somewhat low neck, but now low enough to show much cleavage. The straps were also set low on her shoulders, not really holding up anything. The whole thing was clinging to her thin frame accentuating what little figure she had.  
Around her neck sat a golden necklace, her hair had been washed and brushed into silkiness, and two thin braids which connected in the back kept it away from her face.

She looked (dare she even think it) decent!

"What in _the hell_ are you wearing?" Gloria yelped, she had been passing by when her sister had come into view.  
Isabelle swallowed, "A…dress," she gave a slightly wan smile, though the more she looked into the mirror the more she realized how stupid that article of clothing looked on her.  
Gloria raised an eyebrow, "I know that," she snorted, "I'm just wondering why someone like you would be wearing it! How do you intend on impressing that _rich freak_ looking like that?" she put her hand on one hip and leaned against the doorframe, looking somewhat bored with the conversation.  
Isabelle found herself sputtering in indignation at the title Gloria and Maria had given her boyfriend, "He's not a freak!" she objected sharply.  
"Izzy, you're only saying that because you want his money-I get it. Anyways, I'd change quickly if I were you-the albatross will be here soon."

Isabelle watched as Gloria sauntered off, and sighed shakily. She knew it was ridiculous to try and change now, it was going on five thirty and Mycroft was _always_ on time.  
Just as she expected, the doorbell rang exactly three times-he was here. Clasping her hands together the young woman made her way through the apartment on semi-high heeled shoes and to the front door. Taking in another breath, she opened it, revealing Mycroft Holmes in all his majesty. He smiled in a strangely warm fashion at the sight of her, his gray eyes narrowing so that making him look (and this was the only way Isabelle could think to describe it) _seductively tired_.  
"Good afternoon Isabelle," he greeted pleasantly, "shall we?"  
She nodded, and then turned around to speak to Maria who was within earshot, "I'm leaving. I'll try to be back before it gets too late."

"Whatever."

* * *

Isabelle directed the driver (Daniel Hammlin she believed his name was) to the restaurant she had chosen. Mycroft circled round to open the car door for her, and she accepted his hand to help her out, "You're being overly cordial today," she commented quietly. He didn't dignify that with a response as he closed the door and the two walked into the building.

The warmth of the place was like a breath of fresh air compared to the enormous and (seemingly) meaningless places Mycroft had taken her.  
It was small, about six or seven (she had never thought to count) small round tables were scattered through the middle of the room, and a few booths rested along the edge. The walls were a very dark color, and the floor was a deep red.  
Along the far wall was a small little dance floor, and soft piano music played over speakers.

Isabelle looked at her boyfriend in hopes of a good reaction, but his expression remained annoyingly blank. She walked over to one of the tables and sat down, at least pleased that the room was almost empty. A few couples and one family were sitting a good distance from them.  
Mycroft followed her lead in an almost hesitant manner, folding his hands upon the tabletop. Neither really spoke until the waitress came and took their order (Which included Isabelle cajoling him into not just getting a salad).  
"So…" Isabelle cleared her throat, "How have you been?"  
He looked up from his hands and smiled faintly, "Very well thank you," he replied.

Silence.

Feeling every awkward second that passed by Isabelle bit her bottom lip, fully aware that she was probably staining her teeth with the thin layer of lipstick put on earlier. Her boyfriend seemed contented with just sitting and looking at her, and occasionally at his surroundings whilst remaining completely silent. And although Isabelle was alright with silence usually, this was a date, and it was very annoying!  
"How is Sherlock doing?" she questioned, folding her hands on her lap.  
Mycroft's expression somehow furthered into its emptiness, "He is well," he said, "Bored, it seems is his favorite description."  
Isabelle's eyes widened, "I can't imagine what he must be like when he's bored," she joked, thinking rather fondly of the younger Holmes brother.

"No…_you can't_."

The young woman turned wide eyes to her boyfriend who was glaring openly at her as though she had said something wrong, her mouth moved a few times but no reply seemed forthcoming.  
"Be prepared to clap," Mycroft's expression had suddenly softened, and Isabelle (slightly concerned about her boyfriend's mood swings) mutely followed his gaze to where a couple was sitting. Both were leaning over the table.  
"What do you mean?" she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.  
"He's going to propose, look at his hands."  
She couldn't see anything from that distance, but sure enough one hand which had previously been holding the woman's was shoved into his pants pocket. A small box was then opened in front of the woman's face, "Oh my God….Yes, yes!" she cried, and the two locked lips for what felt like a good ten minutes. The people surrounding all clapped slowly, and Isabelle found herself to be one of them.

"I imagine it was hard to see from your place, but there was a light tremor in his right hand, nervous but not afraid-obviously. This place is intimate, quiet, but not cheap-the perfect place to _pop the question_ as some would put it."  
"That's brilliant!" Isabelle announced, smiling openly at him, "I mean, I'm sure it's not the hardest deduction to make but…wow!"  
"I know," Mycroft replied, looking very much like a smug cat - though Isabelle thought she saw a light blush creep across his cheeks.  
At least he had finally relaxed the young woman mused, as the waitress arrived with their food. A plate of spaghetti was placed in front of both of them, Mycroft looking down at his own with tight lipped apprehension. "It's not poisoned," Isabelle assured, sticking her fork into the noodles and twisting it.  
He smiled almost wanly at her before he followed her action, "I'm afraid I'm not rehearsed in small talk my dear, forgive me for being so…quiet," he shrugged his shoulders lightly-changing the subject, and then brought the food to his mouth.  
"That's alright," Isabelle replied, wondering idly how he could manage to eat spaghetti so…perfectly! She had already brought her napkin to her mouth in hopes of removing tomato sauce, while ate with his usual elegance. "I don't go on many dates and I don't have any friends to spend time with, so I don't do small talk either."

He looked at her with a curious gaze, "You aren't lying, how strange," he hummed, taking another bite off his fork.  
Isabelle's brow furrowed, "What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, wrapping her fingers around her napkin.  
"Lower your hackles my dear, I was merely confused as to why someone as friendly as you are- would have no _friends_," he seemed to say the last word with a hint of disgust.  
"Well, if you were to ask Maria or Gloria, it would be because I'm too_ Isabelle_ for friends," came the reply, a crooked smile on the young woman's face.  
Mycroft snorted despite himself, "Isabelle should not be used as an adjective. Your name can not describe who you are. It would be like saying that someone is too Tom to have friends, or too William to enjoy dancing."  
Isabelle giggled, "Ok I get it, it's just something they say," she shoved her foot against his underneath the table.  
"I will not pretend to understand your family," Mycroft said, a hint of breathy laughter punctuating his words.  
Isabelle couldn't help but blush at that statement; it was so strange to have someone talk to her like she was their equal…well, sort of. Mycroft always had an air of self-importance to him. But at least he knew when to be quiet about it. She continued to press her foot against his, until a thin pale hand came and took her own.  
"You seem fond of forcing me into these things," he remarked, playing with her fingers. She knew that Mycroft wasn't fond of touch, it took quite a while for him to kiss her, hold her hand, even stand to near her. But when he was comfortable it was wonderful. Isabelle's hand was suddenly withdrawn as something painfully occurred to her.

"Mr-I um...Mycroft. I have-I have to ask. You aren't expecting anything to happen like uh...you know," she furrowed her brow worriedly.  
"Intercourse you mean?" Mycroft supplied, looking slightly hurt and likely confused as to why the subject had been so randomly broached, "Of course not, if you don't want it."  
The young woman sighed with relief, "Good- er-not good I uh...I'm sorry, I don't usually talk about this."  
"Perfectly alright," her boyfriend replied, "I understand that you are waiting for marriage."  
Her mouth fell open, "How did you-? Oh, never mind. Yes, I am," she smiled, "It's what my mother did, my father did, and I hope my sisters are doing," she shrugged, "You don't mind?"  
Mycroft sniffed derisively, "Don't be ridiculous, of course I do not mind. If I did, I would have said so."  
Isabelle raised an eyebrow, "You don't normally say when things are bothering you Mycroft, you like me to guess," she said.  
He grinned and then said with a heavy dose of syrup in his words, "It keeps the mystery in our relationship."  
Isabelle leaned across the table and planted a soft kiss on his lips before returning to her previous position, "Thank you."

…

The two finally finished their meal, and Isabelle was certain the evening was almost over. There was one last thing she had wanted to do, but...would that be pushing her luck?  
Mycroft had busied himself with re-folding his unused napkin into a perfect square, (punctuating that he probably had a bit of OCD) when Isabelle stood up and extended her hand to him.

"Care to dance?"

He looked up at her as though she had gone crazy, but as her hand remained steadily in front of him he took it and stood up, "I am not very good," he protested as Isabelle guided him carefully to the small dance floor.  
"Neither am I...I used to stand on my mother's feet whenever we danced here, I remember the jealousy when Maria and Gloria would go after me," she confessed.  
Mycroft pulled Isabelle closer so that he could place his hand against her back, the other taking her upper arm.  
Isabelle in turn gripped his shoulder and his arm in turn.  
Tingles ran through her entire body as she realized how carefully he held her, like the mug of hot chocolate so many months ago.  
She recognized the song as Ave Maria for the violin as Mycroft started to do a simple Box Waltz, She counted 1-2-3-4 in her head with each step, not wanting to mess up-but she quickly realized that it didn't matter if she did. Mycroft was quick to accommodate every mistake as though he could sense them coming! Then again, she wouldn't put it past him to have that power.  
At one point Isabelle decided to test this, and she took a long step to the right, twisting around so that she still faced him. He did the same, following her every move with precision. His left hand moved back and took hers and Isabelle was spun around and then pulled back against his body, "You lied," she whispered, breath hitched in her throat.  
"I did not, I merely misjudged my pure magnificence," he responded humbly. Isabelle couldn't help but laugh as he spun her around again.

Eventually it had to end, though Isabelle was strongly against the idea. The song faded and turned back into a melody she didn't know.  
"That was...enjoyable," he relented, somewhat out of breath from the exertion.  
"Yes, it was," Isabelle replied softly, trying to hide the blush which had annoyingly stretched across her face.  
Her boyfriend pulled free his pocket-watch and looked at it, "I should return you home," he breathed, "Your sisters might worry."  
Quite obviously, that last part was intended as a joke, but the young woman didn't take it like that, "You're right," she conceded.  
Mycroft paid for the food (though Isabelle originally objected) and then the two were seated comfortably in the back of his car. The drive was met with silence, uncomfortable silence. Isabelle was confused as to why Mycroft's guard had been placed back up, but after that dance...it didn't seem as important. She reached her hand towards his and placed it, her thin fingers stroking his knuckles but received no response. They arrived back at Isabelle's apartment and the young woman stepped out of the vehicle.

"Good night Isabelle," Mycroft said softly.  
"Good night Mycroft," she replied in the same quiet voice. She closed the door and stepped back, watching as the black car drove away.

She walked slowly back into her apartment, and opened the door to her flat. Maria and Gloria were sitting around the kitchen counter, one watching television and eating cereal, the other brushing her teeth over the kitchen sink (an annoying habit of hers).  
"Hey Izzy," Maria greeted in her usual condescending tone, "What took you so long?"

Isabelle stared at her, completely missing the question and a smile growing on her face.

"I think I'm in love!"

* * *

**Edited***

**The next chapter is called *drum roll* - "Ugly and Stupid!" I'll leave it to your imagination just what happens in this one! O-O**


	8. Chapter 7- Ugly and Stupid

**Ugly and Stupid-**

"This is getting sickening, it really is," Lillian Holmes sighed as she followed her father down the hall. "Never get married my dear if you find…" he paused, thinking of the right word, "_involvement_, sickening." He opened the door to his office and stepped back so that his daughter might go through first.  
"I probably won't get involved with anybody, unless they're interesting one hundred percent of the time. Otherwise it's pointless" she snorted, looking around his office with disguised interest.  
"Yes well… If you find you do like someone, I would recommend being less blunt," he smirked.

* * *

Isabelle had recently found herself wondering just what about her Mycroft was attracted to.

Her looks? Her personality? Neither seemed realistic. So what was it?

It especially plagued her after their first break up and then their reconciliation (in that order of course), when he had explained to her about how all his previous relationships were more like experiments to him than anything else.  
What if that was what she meant to him, and his assurance (that one singular assurance might she add) that he cared about her was all a lie? She loved _him_, that much was clear-but did he…?  
She wanted to trust him! It was a rather important thing to do so. But how could she, when she couldn't ever tell when he was lying? Or know when he was truly upset?

"I'm going to ask him, I'm going to ask him…" Isabelle paced through Mycroft's dining room nervously. The man in question had to take a phone call, and then they would be on their way to some expensive restaurant where they would talk about nothing for a short time, eat, and go home.  
It sounded so boring when explained as thus but Isabelle wasn't sure she would ever wish to trade it, even for a thousand pounds… _most likely because he has more than that inside his wallet_ she thought wryly.  
"Focus," she scolded herself, balling her hands into fists.

Mycroft entered the room again just as he was tucking his mobile phone into his suit coat pocket, a tired sigh escaping him, "Remind me again just why I focused my attention on a job that requires talking to idiots," he drawled, his tone sharper than Isabelle was used to.  
Shoulders tensing uncomfortably, she walked close to him and planted a kiss on his cheek, "Because you enjoy the rest of it," she replied, though really, she had no way of truly knowing. She didn't even know what his title was. She kind of knew it had something to do with government and politics but… That's where her knowledge ended.  
He smiled faintly, "Oh yes, of course," he conceded, reaching into his waistcoat pocket this time and removing his pocket-watch, he clicked it open an frowned, "We should leave," he commented, placing it back into its proper place.

He began to walk towards the front door when Isabelle yelped, "Mycroft!"  
He turned around, "Yes?"

_This is a really bad idea! **ABORT ABORT!**_

Never one to listen to the screaming in her head, the young woman blushed, "I wanted to ask …a-and forgive me if this sounds cheesy. What um. What do you like about me?"  
His brow furrowed, "Pardon?"  
"I mean, why are we dating? W-what are _you_ getting out of this?" she shrugged, attempting to mimic his usual nonchalance- and failing.  
He gave a soft hum in thought before he shrugged in return, which felt rather like a dagger through Isabelle's heart.

_He doesn't know!- **ABORT!**_

"I will admit," He elaborated, "That my choice in you specifically has confused me on a number of occasions. There is little special about you. Dreadfully plain in appearance and not exactly the smartest I've met in my lifetime. And even less intelligent whence compared with _myself_. And that is not to bring up the emotional damage you have suffered and now carry around like weight every day….I think-"

Without any warning to the incorrigible Holmes, Isabelle slammed her fist hard into his upper arm. This obviously sent him staggering back a few steps in surprise and from the force of it. Blinking back tears, the young woman darted to the closest place she knew had a locked door- the bathroom. Or rather, _one_ of the bathrooms.  
Isabelle tugged at the door handle a few times to make sure it was fully locked, before she stepped back and sat herself onto the pristinely white toilet (covered obviously).  
She tugged at her hair, tears dripping down her cheeks. God, she knew she wasn't perfect…she was below average as a person. But did he have to be so brutally honest?  
This confirmed all her worst fears about the relationship- he didn't care about her in the slightest. He thought she was _dreadful! _  
Isabelle stared at her hands, silently. Allowing the tears to fall onto her pale-freckled-arms. She felt sick, which was probably an ok thing considering where she was.

Agonizing moments passed before there was a soft knock on the door, "Miss Long?" Mycroft's voice was empty, like the rest of him, "Are you…alright?"  
Isabelle frowned at the door, "No!" she shouted at him, "Leave me alone!"  
There was a light snort, "My dear, you seem to forget who's bathroom you are currently residing in. I merely wish to talk with you."  
She dug her fingernails into her leg, "Oh I'm sure!" she snapped, anger roiling inside of her. The injustice of it! "You just want to share a few more horrible words about how ugly I am, how stupid and damaged I am! Well, I have a few choice words for you too. You-you…_Robotic_…. _Fat,_ _pompous, overstuffed -twat_!" her voice sounded strangely raw, emotions she hadn't known were even there, bubbling to the surface. It felt as though she was yelling at her sisters for everything they'd ever said to her, but…she knew they were true so what was the problem here?  
There was a pregnant pause before Mycroft replied in an almost timid voice (completely unlike him) "Well, that was uncalled for."  
She felt horrible, absolutely terrible. But was there any turning back now? Unlikely.  
"Besides," he continued, "Fat and overstuffed seem too much like synonyms."  
Isabelle couldn't hide a smile at that. Why did he have to be so damned charming all the time? When he spoke again, his voice was closer, as though he was pressing his forehead against the door, "Isabelle, I wish to apologize. I did not intend to upset you as I did."  
She blinked back another tear which rolled freely off her small nose, "Then what did you intend?" she asked.  
"To explain what I am _getting out of our relationship_," he responded, the last few words spoken almost wryly, "I mistakenly started with explaining things that others would find fault with."  
She blinked a few times, "Others?"  
Isabelle could almost sense his backing away from the door, the soft grip on the door handle, and the cute little frown forming on his face, "Of course. I did not mean to imply that I found you ugly, or that you are less intelligent than is needed. Plain does not automatically equate to ugly…in itself, it is its own kind of beauty."

She felt air pull into her lungs, almost overwhelming her, "Y-you think I'm _beautiful?!_"  
"To an extent…" he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Yes, I do. I worded it poorly which is something that does not happen often, I hadn't slept well last night I'm afraid and…am unable to think entirely clearly."  
Worry set in like a stone, and Isabelle stood up, unlocking the door and peeking out at the tired form of Mycroft Holmes. She hadn't noticed it before, but his posture was ever-so-slightly hunched, his eyes given a more faraway gaze and irises surrounded by a tinge of pink.  
"What happened? Are you alright?" she demanded, grasping for one of his pale hands. He looked at her with yet another of his confused yet curious stares, a blush creeping across his face all the while. "Perfectly, it was only a stomach upset that kept me up. I feel perfectly fine now I assure you," he stated, and Isabelle found herself unsure as to whether he was telling the truth.  
"I'm sorry I reacted so horribly," she apologized, and found herself pulling him into a hug…their first hug. Amazing that it would come so late after their first kiss, but who was she to complain?  
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly. Of course he didn't hug her back. His arms hung loosely beside him, and it occurred painfully to her that he wasn't sure just what he was doing! Or, he didn't like her. But after saying things that were clearly embarrassing to him, how could he not like her at least a little?  
"I'm also sorry I insulted you like that, that was a bit childish," she laughed breathily, "I don't really think you're like those synonyms."  
She really, really didn't. The man was like a twig! How she thought of those insults she had no idea! Ok, that wasn't true, it had come to her on numerous occasions that he was on some sort of diet-as every time they went out he ordered something healthy-and then picked at it as though it would kill him.  
Another blush crept (quite unwillingly she was sure) across his cheeks, "Yes well, I am certain you don't."  
That was a lie.  
"I was upset," Isabelle defended weakly, "I-I had never thought that insult would come out of _you_ Mycroft. Maria and Gloria, other boyfriends-yes. But you?" she bit her bottom lip again, "Even if they are true"

He sighed softly, "Apologies again for that," he said, "Let us forget that this whole disastrous event ever happened. And I promise that it shall not occur again….willingly," he added for good measure.  
Isabelle laughed, despite the fact that her eyes now kind of stung, "Same."  
The two stared at each other, and were anyone else there it might have appeared creepy. But it was nice; it was the right place for silence.  
Eventually Mycroft cut it short before it could stretch to an hour long, "Shall we go now?" he inquired, and Isabelle nodded-taking his arm and allowing herself to be led towards the front door.

"This time I promise not to punch you."

* * *

**Edited***

**The next chapter is… Picnic day : ****Wherein fluff ensues, and Mycroft may or may not engage in unwanted legwork.**

**Please review! **


	9. Chapter 8- Picnic Day

**Picnic day-**

"Sheesh," Lily mumbled after having listened about her mother's ridiculously sensitive personality.  
Poor woman couldn't take a little constructive criticism!  
She had previously seated herself behind her father's desk, hands folded innocently on her lap, "What next?" she asked, edging forwards.  
Mycroft was busy typing in one of the probably daily changing code into his laptop, "Depends on what you would like to hear," he said distractedly, gray eyes staring at the screen as though his daughter was no longer his problem.  
Lillian was used to this to some extent, but frowned anyhow, "Come on daddy," she whined, "Tell me about the date _afte_r she cried in the bathroom."  
Her father turned his attention to her, raising an eyebrow, "It _was _different from the others …Though you must promise not to laugh this time," he ended with a smirk.

* * *

"This is ridiculous, what self-respecting person wastes their time traveling across _any_ expanse of land just to eat a singular meal _on the ground_? It's not as though it is a special meal either-thank you my dear-the cuisine consists mainly of soggy sandwiches and lukewarm cups of apple juice or variations upon that."

"Are you going to be complaining all day?"

Isabelle was given one of those "_what do you think_?" stares, and she rolled her eyes.  
If you hadn't guessed by now, the two were seated upon an old blanket of Isabelle's, in the middle of a lush green park. An even older picnic basket was sitting all on its lonesome away from the blanket, having its insides purged of all picnic fare.  
Mycroft held his _lukewarm cup of juice_ with one hand, his long legs spread out in front of him (his third try at a comfortable sitting position).  
"You said that a picnic was ok with you," Isabelle said after a short pause, "If you hate them so much, why did you say yes?"  
He sighed softly, brushing imaginary dirt off of his pant leg, "Guilt mostly. Which is a new experience for me; I wasn't sure how to deal with it. This seems to have solved the problem beautifully," he explained crisply.  
He was given the benefit of another eye roll but this one was mixed alongside a fond little smile. Difficult as he was, she still enjoyed his presence.

And hey, this meant that he was…comfortable enough to talk.

A low rumble echoed from some distant part of the sky, and Isabelle looked up to see the thick layer of clouds slowly forming.  
"And of course," Mycroft said in his all-knowing tone of voice, "There is the threat of rain," he smirked. Grabbing a ham sandwich, Isabelle unwrapped it from its plastic wrapping and bit into it defiantly, "It won't rain on this one," she said sharply and with her mouth full just to annoy him.

Which was of course, when a fat drop landed right on top of her head and was followed by others quite quickly.  
The young woman sighed through her nose and re-wrapped her sandwich, shooting a glare at Mycroft who was smiling. It was as though he was sending the message "I told you so" psychically to her. The young brunette felt a cold wind run through her and she hugged her bare arms, reminding her that the warm weather they had been experiencing for the longest time was to go away for an even longer time. The rain began to beat down harder upon the couple, and Isabelle decided to just let it go. She took the cup of juice from Mycroft's hand and dumped the contents onto the grass, then shoved it into the basket.  
"Why are you rushing my dear?" Mycroft asked, still looking remarkably amused by all of this-despite it happening to him as well… that smug jerk.  
"Because we're going to be soaked if I don't," she replied, ushering him to his feet so that she could fold up the blanket.  
She turned her back on him, "You could help me you know!" she said, shivering against the rain which had had suddenly begun to soak through her shirt.

_*FWOOP*_

She startled and turned around to see her boyfriend standing serenely beneath his opened umbrella.  
"You're doing fine on your own," he said, "I prefer to avoid any type of…manual labor."  
She blinked at him in disbelief, droplets falling off her lashes, "You have got to be kidding me," she grumbled.  
"Care to join me?" he offered her.  
The young woman stood up and walked towards him, ignoring the basket. Once close, a thought struck her. Rather annoyed with Mycroft for his bad attitude, a sly smile formed on her face and before he could react, she pounced; closing her grip on the handle of his umbrella and pulling it from his hand.  
Then she quickly retreated, rain coming down harder on the canopy of black fabric rolling off and then onto the ground.  
"Isabelle, what are you doing?" Mycroft demanded, quickly becoming soaked without his cover.  
"You want this back, you have to come and get it!" came the terse reply. Mycroft frowned, "This is utterly childish!" he exclaimed, stubbornly crossing his arms.  
"Yes, I know. Come and get it!" Isabelle insisted, tightening her grip on the wooden handle. She could feel the warmth of where his hand had been.

His brow furrowed over narrowed gray eyes, water droplets dripping off the tip of his long nose. The cold was melting through his layers of protection, she could tell. It was certainly pouring now, and it felt like it was so sudden…how could she have not seen the rain coming? Perhaps Mycroft had, and he agreed to the picnic to rectify his guilt and have fun messing with her.  
"Come on Mycroft, it's only a short ways. Come and get it!" Isabelle pressed.

Several moments passed where nothing happened, both willing the other to cease and desist. But, as it turned out, they both really didn't want to. And so the weaker willed gave in first…  
"Remarkably childish," Mycroft complained to himself with a deceiving eye roll. He walked over to her, his shoes making a soft "squelch" against the damp grass.  
He was a few steps away from him; hand held out to take his precious accessory…only Isabelle wasn't having it.  
She darted away from him, "Come and get it!"

"What on earth has come over you? I am soaking wet and wish to have my umbrella returned. Now see sense and come back here!"  
She shook her head, "No. I know it's childish, but no," she shrugged, "Come and get it."

Much to her surprise, he complied. And she decided on the same again, wondering if she had some sort of death wish in mind. He seemed to be growing increasingly irate with her, and he quickened his pace to her side. She was much quicker though, and she darted further away.  
This went on about three more times before she realized she was tiring him out, yet he continued to follow her every step. She knew he was stubborn, but usually it was about you know…staying still. Always.  
She stopped to let him closer, feeling slightly guilty now. Stray wet hairs clinging to her skin. He suddenly stopped as well.  
"I won't move anymore ok?" she said, holding out his constant companion for him to take. But he didn't move.  
"Mycroft?"

"If you want me, come and get me," he shrugged, his voice mingling with intakes of breath. Isabelle giggled and rushed to his side, covering him with the umbrella… though at this point it did little good. She stood comfortably close, the warmth of his body radiating through the drenched layers of clothing. She leaned forwards and kissed him softly on the lips, wrapping her arms around his. He withdrew slightly, not enough to stop the kiss but for her arms to be removed from his body.  
She blushed and retracted her kiss, "God, sorry!" she yelped, unsure why she was apologizing for kissing someone she'd kissed many times before.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Don't apologize it's just… Nothing, shall we go?" he gestured vaguely to the drenched picnic basket with his free hand.  
Feeling somewhat put off, the young woman went through the rain to grab the basket. What was with this guy anyways? One moment they were having fun and growing closer, the next he was putting up shields.  
This sunk uncomfortably in her stomach. Was this the extent of their relationship? Would he eventually grow bored of her games and throw her away like a skipping stone on a pond? She tried to shake those thoughts away- For crying out loud he just disliked too much physical contact sometimes! But her thoughts still trailed off to the boyfriend before him, Roger Ellingham. Now him she thought she loved, despite that small niggling of uncertainty she was willing to devote herself to him… but you can guess what happened.  
He left without a single word, and Isabelle contracted further into her self-hatred.

Isabelle carried the basket back to Mycroft and the two began their walk back to his car. "Are you alright?" he inquired without looking.  
She nodded, "Yep, fine and dandy," she rubbed at her arm with her free hand. He tilted his head ever so slightly, "I don't believe I've ever heard that expression."

"It means that I'm ok," she assured, glad for the rain for once because he couldn't see her crying.

* * *

**I'm so sorry this chapter took so long! I had some sort of slump where I couldn't sit down and write, and this chapter especially was a bother. After a while I gave up, and rewrote the whole thing taking it a different direction which is probably why it's so weird (read: stupid) haha.**

**Also, I know it ends sort of pathetically, but this is more buildup for the next chapter:**

**"Be afraid, be very, very….afraid."**

**In which we go to Mycroft's point of view! And a lot of stuff happens. It'll be much longer than this one I promise!**


	10. Chapter 9- Be afraid

**Be afraid; be very, very…afraid-**

Lily frowned at her father, "Did that really happen?"  
"It did," came the distracted reply, his lips pressed against the knuckles of his left hand as he leaned against it.  
The young girl picked at her skirt thoughtfully, considering what she wanted to hear next. Surprised with herself that talking with her father had proved entertaining enough to hold her attention.  
"Daddy…"  
"Yes?"  
"I don't understand how this all works," Lily spouted, "I don't get it. Every story seems to change, it's all over the place. How long did this go on?" she leaned forwards, pressing her fingertips against his desk,  
"Oh yeah, and exactly how long did she stay with her idiot sisters?"  
He gave her a wary stare, gray eyes shielding something, "If I tell you, will you stop asking about your mother?" he questioned.  
She nodded solemnly, "Yeah, sure."  
Running a hand through his short dark hair, Mycroft Holmes continued on a story that changed things just a little bit.

* * *

"I dislike relationships, they're too...complicated."

Mycroft had once said to his mother with a listless shrug, one particular day when he was _just_ old enough to be badgered about that sort of thing. She had tutted at him, but decided to leave it be for a while.  
He remembered that on his twenty fifth birthday, the whole thing had been brought up again, _"Do you think you'll find yourself a nice girl and settle down Myc?"_  
To which Mycroft had scoffed and replied, "Why would I waste my time on something so plebian? I have more to worry about than some idiotic person. And it is _My-croft_!"

Eventually the whole thing did die down...when he moved far, far away.  
Sherlock had done the same, and probably for the same reason not long after.

Oh, but what if his dear mummy could see him now! Preparing for a one year anniversary with a lovely young woman named Isabelle Long.  
The stuffing would have been hugged out of him!  
Shaking off that horrible thought, Mycroft shoved his arms into a white shirt and set about buttoning it closed. An oblong mirror stood in front of him, his bed just to his left and the door to his bedroom to the right.

_Three hundred and sixty-five days_. That was a long time. Or at least, it felt as though it was. In truth most people considered a year a short time, not enough time to do what they'd always dreamed.  
_Those people were idiots._  
If one was given one year to follow their dreams _and_ if they had real drive-they had a high chance of success. Or, they would discover that what they were yearning for was actually not for them, and they would move on.  
But um... that was straying from his original point.

Mycroft tucked his shirt in then pulled his vest off its place on the bed, pushing his arms through the holes-he contemplated the whole thing.  
Him, Mycroft H.A. Holmes, having an anniversary dinner...on purpose! Going out (so to speak) with someone in general seemed like a ridiculous endeavor in the first place-because he just, didn't do people. He didn't like them...talking to most of them was like chewing glass! To reiterate, he wanted to protect people, but he just couldn't deal speaking with them.

Besides that, he could hardly allow such an attachment. Attachment led to heartbreak and unwanted emotions. *Ahem* Not that he could be broken so easily of course...  
Isabelle was dreadfully normal too, she wasn't exceptionally smart, or very pretty (that is, to the general populace), her sentences tended to be halted and unsure which drove him (figuratively) insane.

And she tended to cry a lot. Or at least, a lot for someone that Mycroft was affiliated with (_not too much for someone Sherlock was affiliated with though_, he thought wryly).  
She had such a low self-esteem everything seemed to set her off, and Mycroft would end up making some lengthy apology speech to set her mind at ease. But he did this willingly. Something always tugged at him when she started crying. He could tell that it was at least somewhat warranted in each situation, she had been placed with a family that treated her like dirt and she was looking for something new and different -only to be disappointed by the path she'd chosen.  
That didn't make it any easier to interpret what the problem was though, he had to resist the urge to just pat her shoulder and nervously mumble "there, there".

Mycroft turned around slowly a few times in front of the mirror to ensure there were no creases in his clothing, and found himself frowning at his appearance. Decent enough, if not a bit too... forget it, now was not the time to become all self-conscious. He grabbed his deep blue tie and began futzing with it.

This wasn't going to last anyways, he reminded himself. People are remarkably unreliable- that is including himself. Either could lose their nerve and break up with the other, and that would be that. Simple, easy… but really, what a terrible thought!  
Because if one were to stop seeing the other for whatever reason, Mycroft would no longer have the benefit of her sweet little smiles and knowing jokes. The conversations filled with all sorts of ridiculous topics and… well, just seeing her set him at some sort of ease.  
Something in his head always screamed at him to not get any closer to this person, because he knew she was going to die, or leave him, or, or _something._ And he would end up hurt *_ahem ahem_* not that he could be hurt by anyone of course! But she knew just how to get past most of that.

He straightened the fabric a few more times to ensure exactness, then flicked his hand across his pant leg to rid it of imaginary creases. He looked presentable, and that was good enough at least for Isabelle.

He stepped over to the desk and grabbed his pocket-watch and clipped it to the vest, tucking it then into his inner pocket.  
Finally finished, he grabbed his laptop from the bed and carried it out of his bedroom, through the hallway, and into his office. Or rather, one of them. He had one in an official government building, and one in his own home (which in his eyes provided more safety than the government building).  
Much to his surprise, his mobile started ringing, reaching one pale hand into it, he removed the offending item.  
He raised an eyebrow when he realized that it was Isabelle.  
After all this time he'd finally given her his mobile number, his assistant (Let's call her Anthea for simplicities sake) had objected to him taking personal calls while she was working. (He was somewhat sure it was intended as a joke, but he'd never been good at that sort of thing.)

"Hello My dear," he greeted, walking across the room and placing his weight into his overly plush office chair.  
"M-Mycroft hi," she stumbled, "I uh, wanted to call you before you started off for my uh, my work…"  
He frowned, "Is something wrong?" he asked, noting the lightest of tremors in her words. There was a pause, then her melodic voice came back, "No, not really. I was just… I was-I was fired."  
His eyes widened almost invisibly, but he didn't say anything-waiting for her to explain the situation at hand.  
"I-It seems they've figured out how useless I am," she laughed humorlessly.  
He tightened his grip on his phone, "Perhaps my dear, they realized that you were too good for the position they had offered you," he hoped that this was comforting. When she spoke next, he could hear the sweet little smile in her words, "Thank you."

There was a moment of rather awkward silence before Isabelle Long squeaked, "I can't go out with you anymore."  
Mycroft's posture tensed, and he leaned forwards, "Pardon?"  
"I-I'm sorry, I'm sure this sounds like I'm just upset about losing my job and everything but…I've been thinking about this for a while!" he heard he take in a calming breath, "And I-I really hate doing this over the phone, but I didn't want us to have our Anniversary dinner only for it to end with a breakup-that just seemed so wrong! I want you to know that I care about you, I just don't see this…going anywhere," her voice became heavy, and he could tell she was going to cry (how very typical).  
"I'm not like you!" she stated after more silence, he could tell that it was getting to her, "I didn't want to walk up to the door and just say '_Mycroft, I no longer wish to see you on a-what was it you said- courting basis.'_ I just couldn't! I hope we'll stay as friends….Please say something."

"Goodbye Miss Long."

He sighed resignedly at his phone, hanging up on Isabelle. Well, that solved his problem.

* * *

"Go away I'm busy."  
"Ah dear brother, what contribution to science could you be making now? The cure for the ice cream headache?"

Mycroft smirked at his younger brother as his shoulders tensed, Sherlock's eye pressed against his microscope. "That would be your line of expertise, not mine," he quipped back.  
The elder Holmes brother snorted softly, before placing a file upon the tabletop next to Sherlock's left hand, "I want you to look into this for me."  
The younger grunted in that _oh-so- clever_ way of his, before he grabbed at the file and opened it. He seemed to be in a less objectionable mood then the last time Mycroft had seen him.  
He watched blandly as Sherlock quickly read over the pages, then turned around to stare at his brother, "You could solve this case in your sleep, why have you brought this to me?" he questioned, ice blue eyes narrowing.

"Leg-work," he offered, grip tightening on his umbrella at the word. Sherlock shook his head, gaze flickering up and down his brother's form searching for the truth, "No…You came here with different motives. What's happened?"  
Mycroft let out a disgruntled sigh, "Believe me Sherlock, it's nothing. I was being kind, you must try it sometime," he took the file from his brother's hand-if he was going to be childish about it…

"Where is your girlfriend, I thought you two were joined at the hip," Sherlock leaned against the table with a smirk-unknowing that he'd just hit the mark.  
Schooling in his features Mycroft spoke flatly, "She and I are no longer _an item_-so to speak," he stated. Sherlock stood up and left the room, forcing his brother to follow him, "Feeling pathetic are we brother?" he asked, most likely gleaning information on the matter as he watched Mycroft walk.  
"Pathetic is not a word I would use," the elder Holmes scoffed, "Perhaps I was upset initially, but I did not waste any more than a few minutes on the matter."  
Sherlock tilted his head, "She broke up with you." The smile that followed included teeth, coaxing a long suffering sigh from his brother.  
"Yes Sherlock, she did."  
He watched as his little brother collapsed onto his chair, long limbs seemingly everywhere until settled in their place.  
"How about Heartsick?"  
"What?"  
"A word you would use," Sherlock said, his deep rumbling voice like some sort of giant animal's purr.  
"For God's sake Sherlock let it drop," Mycroft protested, "I am not heartsick nor am I pathetic. Tired perhaps," he smiled coldly.

Deciding that he'd had enough the elder Holmes brother turned for the door, he was just about to open _said door_ when Sherlock's voice was heard again, "What did she say?"  
He turned around, "Pardon?" he sighed.  
The younger shifted his position so that he was more standing than sitting on his chair, "_Isabelle Long," _he said condescendingly, "What did she say when she broke up with you?"  
Brow furrowing, the elder walked further into the room, "I didn't write it down."  
Sherlock scoffed, and Mycroft found a smirk growing on his face, "Ludicrous I know," he said with an airy laugh.

And so the conversation was repeated to his younger brother, word for word-minus the speech hiccups… He wasn't really sure why he did it except to prove to his brother that he still had an excellent memory. What was more confusing was Sherlock's insistence to hear about it in the first place.  
"Go see her."  
For the third time Mycroft expressed his confusion, "What?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, "She clearly stated that she wants to remain friends. I take that as an opening to visit her. Do it, preferably today."

"Sherlock…Are you attempting to give me relationship advice?" Mycroft questioned, one eyebrow raised towards his hairline.  
The younger snorted, "Don't be stu- don't be ridiculous," he corrected himself, hoping to avoid a lecture from his brother on how stupid Sherlock was in comparison to himself, "I am merely being kind," he offered his brother another one of his condescending smirks.

Realizing that life was too short for this, the elder nodded to his brother, "I will leave the file," he said plainly, placing the item in question upon the small "dining room" table before he left, swinging his umbrella theatrically.

* * *

How did he allow himself to get wrapped up in these sorts of things? Relationships, undercover jobs, games of deduction with Sherlock…gym classes. A shiver ran down his spine.  
And now he was standing directly in front Isabelle's apartment (flat?) door. He sucked in a calming breath, mind racing through several variants on how the interaction could end- Most of them not ending well.  
Losing his train of thought he found himself ringing the doorbell three times methodically.  
A few moments passed before the door was opened, revealing the face of…which one was it? At any rate, she had the shortest hair, "What are you doing here?" she yelped, shielding her petit body with the door.  
_"Care to make an educated guess?" _he wanted to say, but restrained himself, "I've come to visit your sister-you know which one I presume- is she at home?"  
He knew that she was of course, her car was parked in the driveway-and she hardly ever left building after nine unless she was on a date with him.-no longer a problem obviously.

She wrinkled her rather small nose at him, "She's busy, and I doubt she wants to see you anyway so-bug off!" she snarled. Mycroft stared down at her and she quailed under his gaze. A cut on her right hand (clearly made by a pair of sharpened scissors rather than a kitchen knife) told enough for him to know that something was wrong, and he stepped forwards making the short haired one back away from the door in surprise.  
The inside of the flat was rather comfortable (read: small) with dull cream colored walls and even duller colored furniture. The kitchen was separated by a long counter from the rest of the room, surface covered in random bits of cutlery and dirty dishes.  
The other sister was seated on the sofa watching the television, a bowl of cereal in her hand and a bored expression on her face.

The first sister- ah yes, Maria wasn't it? - crossed her arms over her chest, "Get out of here!" she protested.  
"Which one is her room?" Mycroft inquired cordially, though it became clear which one was hers the moment after. The other one (Gloria) scowled from her spot on the sofa, "I should call the police," she snapped, shoving her half eaten bowl of cereal onto the side table.  
"You could, little good it would do you," The Holmes said, walking towards Isabelle's door. He stopped just in front of it, when a hiccupy sort of sound was heard from just behind it. The two sisters had begun circling him like vultures but he had tuned out their voices, the door was locked. He rapped on the door with his knuckle, "Isabelle?" he spoke.  
No response, merely more of that strange snuffling noise. Frowning to himself he turned to the vultures, "What is she doing in there exactly?"  
Gloria crossed her arms, "Learning her lesson, now get out!"  
He rolled his eyes and turned to the other sister, the one that seemed more afraid of him, "Do you have a key for this door?"

After much squalling, he was finally given the small metal object and he shoved it into the keyhole. "My dear I am coming in, I will give you ten seconds to prepare yourself!" he explained to the door, not wanting to catch her unclothed or anything along those lines.  
After he finished counting, he tentatively opened the door, revealing a darkened room. He could tell immediately that she was alone as he suspected, he stepped further in, scrabbling for a light switch. Once found he clicked the lights on, what met his sight was not one he would soon forget.

Isabelle was collapsed on the bed sobbing into her folded hands, her silky chestnut hair splayed around her- and he quickly noted a few chunks were cut much shorter than the yard long strands beside them. Her jean clad knees were pressed to her chest, thin legs scrunched beneath her frame. Mycroft stiffened, "Isabelle?" he asked softly, hoping not to startle her.  
A few moments passed before she acknowledged his presence, her head lifted and turned revealing…Good lord.  
Along the right side of her cheek blood was pouring from a deep cut, it had stained her hands and her clothing and other parts of her face where she had wiped at her eyes. She looked blearily at him, not quite comprehending who he was-most likely severe blood loss. The crimson liquid had begun to dry along the edges of her bed sheet.  
"M-Mycroft, what are you doing here? You aren't…" she mumbled after a short bout of confused silence.  
Stomach lurching he tossed his Umbrella aside and came to her, grabbing at her hands and pulling her up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her in an incredibly awkward hug. She pressed her face against his body, spreading blood all over him-he didn't mind much, he could change later.  
"Th-they tried to c…to cut my-"  
"I know," he interrupted, "It's alright my dear, you're safe," he ran a hand through her long hair, "I'm…I'm here."  
He knew he couldn't keep her like this; she had lost a lot of blood already and she needed medical care. He carefully maneuvered her so that he could reach into his pocket and remove his phone. He dialed Anthea, asking for a car to come pick her up and take her to the hospital. She complied with no more than a "Yes sir" before she hung up and he was left alone with a delirious Isabelle.

Neither Maria nor Gloria seemed concerned with his presence anymore, and anger boiled deep within him. They were going to pay for this!  
He tightened his hold on her and Isabelle sniffled, "I-I-I broke up with you," she mumbled. He nodded, "I know," he replied, edging his way onto the corner of the bed.  
"Izthis proper?" she slurred.

After a short wait Anthea had arrived and she eased Isabelle to her feet with the help of her employer. Mycroft transferred the weight of his ex-girlfriend fully onto his assistant, and then grabbed his umbrella. "You go on ahead, I came in a different car…and of course, there is unfinished business to attend to."  
The beautiful young woman nodded curtly before she guided Isabelle from the room.

"Oh my God!" One of the vultures cried, most likely at the sight of their sister's facial wound. Waiting until Isabelle was out of the building, Mycroft stood patiently by the doorway of her bedroom. It was very empty, yet personalized. An oblong mirror stood in the corner next to an old oak dresser. The bed was a faded sky blue all around with dark blue pillows. A stuffed teddy bear sat on the side table alongside a glass of untouched water. A poster for some movie called "Kiki's delivery service" was taped crookedly to the wall.  
Taking in a slow breath he turned and exited the room to find Maria and Gloria staring at him.

"I must say you two amuse me, you stand before me so…fearless, even after your dear sister has been practically carried from the building bleeding heavily from a cut on her face," he swung the umbrella around his pointer finger.  
Maria spoke up first, "I didn't think she was hurt that bad!" she objected. Gloria nodded in agreement. The eldest Holmes brother smiled coldly, making them tense visibly, "Oh I'm sure, though it _was_ your fault it happened."  
They both bit their bottom lip at the same time, as though they both shared a brain…something he was sure of.  
"I will come directly to the point; Isabelle is no longer going live with you. She may contact you in any way she sees fit but not the other way around. If you object in an way I will most certainly have you incarcerated for some unspeakable act that I have not worked out yet…If that does not scare you let me go a step further. I will be sure to ensure you are immediately fired from whatever pathetic jobs you have scraped up-and that you shall never gain employment again unless you were to travel across the pond…you do remember our little talk last time don't you?"

They stared blankly at him, fear coursing through their pathetic little minds. Gloria shook her head softly, "You can't do this…she's our sister!"  
"Is she? I'd quite forgotten," Mycroft replied condescendingly, "I had always assumed her to be your pet."

With that, he left.

* * *

When he next saw Isabelle Long it was at his home, her cheek marred with a large white bandage hiding the stitches beneath.  
She still seemed somewhat out of it, but otherwise no worse for wear. "I'm sorry about your suit," She apologized.  
He waved her off, "Perfectly alright," he assured, "This one was becoming to worn anyway," he smiled warmly.  
She rubbed at her arm, gaze fixed on the ground, "Are we…still broken up?" she asked finally. He blinked at her, "I fear I should be asking you that, not the other way around."  
She smiled crookedly, suddenly looking up at him with reddened eyes, "I…I don't think so," she said softly, "I need…I need to figure things out now," she swallowed.  
He nodded, though something annoyingly tugged at his heart, "If that is what you wish. I hope you would still like to stay with me until you are on your feet once again," he offered in his kindest tone. Her smile grew minutely, "Yes, thank you... Mycroft I need to know-what did you say to them?"

The dreaded question.

He shrugged nonchalantly, "I don't know what you're talking about."  
Something close to anger flashed across her face, "I asked you not to threaten them, I love them…I asked you not to!" she ran a hand agitatedly through her hair, her previously happy demeanor dropped like a stone, "Why do you always do this!?"  
He wasn't sure what she meant by _always_, as he didn't make it a habit to threaten people in front of her, but he didn't say so.

"I was doing what I deemed right Miss Long I'm sure you know this _quite well_, now please go upstairs. I trust you know where the guest room is."

With that final word he turned around and set out for his own room, emotions unwillingly roiling around inside of him…Life just wasn't fair.

* * *

**Tada! *huff huff pant pant*  
I actually enjoyed writing this one so it came out much sooner. It is officially 3.971 words-so a bit shorter then my two parter.  
This is probably rushed in places and Mycroft is also probably OOC in parts and-and probably loaded with typos... so many ellipses! Ug. I did my best! X)**

**Some feedback would be just wonderful *nudge nudge wink wink* **

**Next chapter is called "Bad habits" In which both Isabelle and Mycroft discover some bad habits about each other once living together.**

**Oh yeah, and just so you know- I have basically ten chapter ideas already laid out, I just need to write them so don't expect a shortage anytime soon! OvO **


	11. Chapter 10- Bad Habits

**Bad Habits-**

Lillian was forced to leave her father's office after that, finding herself leaning heavily against the wall just outside the closed door. Well, that raised more questions than answered them… They were living together, but for how long before she moved out? Or did she never move out…? Did she get another job, or rely on her now ex-boyfriend? What ever happened to "the vultures"? etc. etc.  
Her father was clearly too busy to continue telling her stories for now, but Lily was nothing if not incredibly impatient.

…

"So, what do you know about my mother?"

"Lily?"

Sherlock stared down at his niece with a bemused expression on his thin face, lips quirked into a barely a smile. He was rather fond of her after all, if not annoyed by her overbearing parent.  
"Oh yeah, _hello Uncle Sherlock_. _Now_, what do you know about my mum? Or to be more specific, what do you know about after the one year anniversary thing?"  
She marched further into 221B and seated herself comfortably in her Uncle's chair, much to his annoyance.  
"What makes you think I know anything?" he questioned, humoring the poor deluded child. Lily shrugged, "I've heard the stories, and you seemed to like her. Daddy won't talk anymore so what do you know?" she folded her hands on her lap. Sherlock's brow furrowed, "I didn't _like her_-I tolerated her."  
Lillian sighed dramatically, and opened her mouth for a long stream of pleading words, "-

**(The badgering that goes here has been cut out for sake of the reader's sanity)**

Realizing quite painfully that she wasn't going to leave without hearing one tale, Sherlock huffed and collapsed onto John's chair in a flailing of long limbs.  
"I only know what she told me; needless to say her complaints were highly amusing."

* * *

So this was it. She was living with Mycroft Holmes now…why did that not make her happy? Isabelle had considered this the entire night. She had confessed to herself and to her sisters that she loved the man. She wanted to spend more time with him. He had a lovely home…what was it? But then it hit her like a ton of bricks. She hadn't _asked_ to stay with him. _Leaving her home hadn't been her idea_! It certainly wouldn't have been her first choice to live with the man she broke up with only two days before. The entire thing had been forced upon her, stripping her protective layers until Isabelle had nothing left!

No family, no real home, no job, no relationship…nothing.

And so she cried a little bit more. But in truth that didn't help the situation. If she was really honest with herself, she was glad that all this had happened. She had been seriously hurt, and had Mycroft not come bad things might have happened. He'd gone quickly to her side and pulled her into a protective (if not uncomfortably given) hug and he had insured her wellbeing. But… let's face it, it wasn't the gash in her face that hurt the most. Something had finally snapped for Isabelle, Maria and Gloria had tried to cut her hair again (literally, forcing her into a chair and holding her down to do it!)…then she was locked in her room like a child or a caged animal as soon as Maria had gotten cut. It wasn't like before when they had just locked her out of the flat or when they would put her down for being too "Izzy" or the dreaded "A" word. This was too much, it overwhelmed her. And after losing her job (the only job she'd ever had mind you), she'd lost it.

The young woman grabbed at her head and dug her fingernails into her scalp, "Get a hold of yourself Isabelle," she mumbled. This was too much! She felt like a baby reaching for something that had been taken, but was (of course) powerless to stand up and take it back. And for that, she almost resented Mycroft. His self-important attitude and reluctance to tell her what was said to Maria and Gloria. The control he took of the entire situation (though needed) was like shackling Isabelle to this place! She wrapped her arms around her knees and sighed. She needed to be kind to him; she was a guest in his house (she had no other place to go!) She just wasn't going to do it happily.

When the morning finally came around, Isabelle was met with her "savior" leaving for work. A thin black briefcase clutched in his hand, the all-important umbrella draped over his arm. He gave her a warm (if not forced) smile, "Good morning," he greeted pleasantly. Absently running her fingers over the bandage on her cheek, Isabelle grunted her best reply. She was sleep deprived and had obviously lost quite a bit of blood the night before-she had a right to be a bit belligerent. Mycroft seemed to think so because he nodded, "I have breakfast foods of various kinds on the table if you find yourself with an appetite. I'm afraid I must be off," he gestured vaguely with his briefcase. Isabelle clutched her arms, not exactly wanting to be alone in the big empty house-but still unsure about whether she wanted _his_ company. Ignoring the sign of her discomfort, he smiled disarmingly and set off for the front door.

Isabelle-after she had eaten a light breakfast (which was predictably delicious) ambled about the house, unsure about touching anything for fear it would upset Mycroft. He was incredibly organized and she would rather not mess up whatever system he had laid out for himself. The library was her best bet if she wanted a chance of returning things to the way they were.  
Isabelle walked slowly through the comfortable space, fingers tracing over the thick volumes as she read the titles. Most were non-fiction, and in languages she couldn't even begin to try and identify. She frowned, not coming across anything that she might enjoy reading (except perhaps for a copy of Treasure Island which was tucked safely in the far corner of the room). Her second tour of the house procured nothing new, except where a third bathroom was hiding. Isabelle considered going into Mycroft's room or office but knew that it would count as a spiteful act if she did so. And thus the rest of the day was filled with boredom.

When Mycroft returned it was late. Isabelle was starving and tired and her stitches itched like mad! She looked irritably up at him from her place on her bed. His mouth formed a tight smile which he removed quickly. "Hey," Isabelle said, running her fingers continuously over her bandaged cheek as though it would stop itching if she focused hard enough. "I merely wanted to see how you were doing before I departed to my room. Do you need or want anything?" he inquired politely.  
She stared at him for a moment, wanting to say something. To complain or…or just to thank him for asking. But instead shook her head, and he was gone.

* * *

The following week mostly went in this manner. Mycroft left early in the morning and came home late at night, except for a few isolated moments when he would return to retrieve something or have a meal with her. Isabelle was gradually feeling worse and worse about the situation. The small child was being provided for but felt unwelcome. Her car was yet to be retrieved and she found a strange inability to ask Mycroft to get it (!) which she found frustrating beyond belief.  
She considered calling Maria or Gloria to come pick her up and take her home. To _beg_ them to take her back! She was sorry for fighting them, sorry for everything…except, she wasn't sorry. Not really. Not this time. The one thing that kept Isabelle her own person was her long hair. She had only gone to get it trimmed, never cut more than an inch. Maria and Gloria couldn't accept this for reasons the younger woman couldn't understand…perhaps long hair was socially unacceptable. By the end of the week Isabelle was desperate for any human contact as it wasn't exactly the same to be around Mycroft when conversations were left to four word sentences.

This, (typically) was when someone broke into the house.

Isabelle had been eating lunch when the sound of the door long being jimmied caught her ear. It was much too early for Mycroft to be home and besides the two of them no one ever came over. She swallowed nervously and edged her way around, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps, pressing her back against the wall near the doorway. Slowly she peered out to where the sound was coming from, fear coursing through her body like blood. _ If I die here… _she thought desperately, unsure out how to end the sentence when her gaze finally landed on the intruder.

"Sherlock!"

The dark haired man spun around to face her (coat swirling around his ankles dramatically). "Oh for God's sake," he practically moaned. Isabelle smiled despite herself as she stepped out from her hiding place, "What are you doing here?"  
"I should ask you the same question," he replied rather haughtily, his ice blue eyes flickering up and down as he took in her appearance. "Ah," he added, and Isabelle realized that he had deduced the situation at hand. Self-consciously she tugged at her thick chestnut braid, "Yeah," she swallowed. Sherlock pursed his lips then turned around, searching for something, for "what" she couldn't begin to guess, "I had assumed you had gotten back together, though the circumstances were rather vague," he flashed a false smile over his shoulder. Isabelle bit her bottom lip, "I'm uh…I don't think we did," she said softly. "What?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, moving through the wide area, every so often turning to search vases and behind paintings. Isabelle desperately wanted to ask what the nut was looking for but forced it to the back of her mind, "I don't think we're together anymore… He's just letting me stay," she shrugged her thin shoulders. Sherlock made a strange grunting sound in the back of his throat in response before walking into another room.

Isabelle followed him into the kitchen and watched as the pale man rooted through the refrigerator, "Sh-Sherlock, can I ask you something?"  
He didn't respond, and the young woman took this as a sign to keep talking. She toyed with her hair as she considered exactly how to word it, "Is your brother…mentally unstable?" she finally spoke, a light edge of humor added just in case Sherlock decided to take hers seriously. She felt too uncomfortable to say what she really felt about the situation.  
Sherlock let out a strange laugh, deep like the soft thrum of vocal chords, "I've always assumed that to be the case," he responded, shoving a jar of mayonnaise out of the fridge and onto the floor, "I would love to hear why you think so," he added, shooting her a smirk. The young woman leaned against the counter, "Well let's see," she said smoothly, "He's obsessive about the littlest things, he has the weirdest eating patterns, he's always emotionally closed off half the time, he's _so lazy_, he doesn't like touch except–you know- _when he does_!" she vented, counting his faults off on her fingers. Then suddenly her eyes stung, "And he won't talk to me anymore!" she folded her arms in front of her, "I'm going crazy, I feel so lost here! I resent being here, but I'm also grateful for all that Mycroft has done for me! I lost my job and I-I'll never get another one because I'm stupid, shitty, _Isabelle_!" she covered her mouth slim which had tightened into a frown, desperately wishing she had remained silent.

Sherlock had stopped his search to stare at her, surprised by the outburst, "Uhuh," he replied stupidly. His expression turned from surprise to disinterest and he began to replace the items in the fridge creating a silence between the two for what felt like forever to Isabelle. "As much as I despise being the sounding voice in this idiotic simpatico the two of you have created. Have you considered explaining this to my brother?" he didn't look at her as he said this, focused on the task at hand.  
Isabelle bit her bottom lip, "I tried, I just can't get the words out," she swallowed. Sherlock stood up to his full height and closed the fridge door, "My brother is nothing if not…understanding," he wrinkled his nose, "I would rephrase that but I fear confusing you. What I mean is, if you were to explain what you want he would _gladly_ comply."  
"I think I know that," her voice took up a strange fondness, "I wouldn't be here if-" she stopped and took in a deep breath, "I'll stop talking now. Do you know, you're great at giving advice?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, "Apparently."

* * *

Sherlock had continued his search for some time before he seemed resigned to not finding it and he left. After their "_heart to heart" _(Sherlock would have choked on bile if he had heard it described as such) he hadn't said a word to Isabelle-and she was ok with it. She needed that time to think. And think she did, until late at night when Mycroft returned.  
Isabelle was seated comfortably at the dining room table sipping at a glass of tap water when he entered the room, brushing a hand tiredly over one eye. "Good evening Miss Long," he greeted without looking at her. "Mr. Holmes," Isabelle replied, her voice lowering a register rather mockingly. He didn't react to this, "And how are you?" he added per the usual.  
Isabelle bit her bottom lip as she thought of her reply, "Not great," she said after a pause, "Could you uh, sit down?" she gestured to a chair. He shot her a bemused look before he complied, resting one pale hand on the tabletop and crossing his legs at the ankles. It harkened Isabelle back to their first meeting when they had shared that blueberry muffin. It seemed so trivial now, but it still meant a lot.

"Is something troubling you?" Mycroft inquired, grey eyed gaze fixed on her. Isabelle fingered a loose thread on the knee of her jeans, "Uh…" she managed. The man sitting before her lifted his chin, "Does this have anything to do with my brother breaking in earlier today?" he inquired with a lazy all-knowing air.  
"A little…not really, sort of," Isabelle rambled then with a frustrated cry she said, "Ug, I want my car!"  
Mycroft stared for a moment then uttered a simple, "Oh."  
"_Oh_ he says," she scoffed, her palm against her forehead. "My deepest apologies, I'm afraid it…hadn't occurred to me to retrieve it," he had an oddly thoughtful expression on his face, considering how he'd missed that detail or even bothered that she'd brought up this fact. Isabelle nodded, "Its ok," she lied, "I should have reminded you probably the second day. I've just been feeling sort of off," she gestured with her free hand to her still bandaged cheek, "If you want the truth, I've been feeling more than just off," she gave him a meaningful look.  
Mycroft frowned, "How so?" his voice was dripping with syrup, something that seemed to come when he became defensive. He'd likely picked up on at least part of the problem. "I don't have a job, I don't-" she swallowed, "I don't feel like I have a family. And you're just… so silent. And that's fine!" she added quickly, "But I don't feel even sort of at home at this place."  
Mycroft uncrossed his legs and sat straight, fingers still resting lightly against the table, "I'm not sure what I can do about that," he responded stiffly. "I don't either," she shrugged listlessly, "I told you before- I need to figure things out. But I don't know where to start," she felt pathetic. She _was_ pathetic. She'd _always_ been pathetic. But now she was pathetic in front of Mycroft Holmes, and that felt even worse.

"I'm tired," Isabelle stated suddenly, "thanks for listening to me whine," she smiled softly as she stood up, shoving her braid over her shoulder.  
Mycroft stood up alongside her and took her hand before she could walk away, his fingers barely pressing against her pale skin, "Miss- Isabelle," he corrected himself tersely, "If you aren't comfortable here, I am most willing to help you pay for a flat. Or if you require a certain meal created I could…" his voice trailed off almost helplessly, his emotionless tones not quite fitting what he was saying or the way he held her hand in his. Isabelle felt something lodge in her throat and nearly choke her, why was he like this? Why was he not like Maria or Gloria, and asking her to get over it? Why was he so intent on helping her?  
"I don't want you to waste your money on me," Isabelle said softly, spinning around to face him. Her eyebrows drawn together, "Just talk to me, like when we went on dates or when we had that hot chocolate," she formed her thin lips into a forced smile, "I'll be fine-really."  
He released his hold on her hand, "Of course," he spoke calmly a serious expression on his face, "Goodnight Isabelle," he added, his usual emotionless voice mingling with something she couldn't quite identify.

That night, Isabelle slept soundly. And when she woke, she found the room around her changed by a glass of water on the nightstand, her Kiki's Delivery Service poster taped crookedly to the wall (at the exact angle it had been in her previous room.) and her Teddy Bear (General Stuffington…don't judge) resting at the foot of her bed. Blue sheets, blankets and pillows sat on top of the chest and the rest of Isabelle's clothing rested serenely atop the dresser.  
Going downstairs she realized that Mycroft had already left for work. When she looked out the window she saw her car in the driveway.

* * *

***Edited**

**…This turned out a bit Angsty. That wasn't my original intention for this chapter. Lol  
I guess it was kind of required, I mean, I couldn't just have Isabelle get over being basically assaulted that easily. At any rate, the next one is considerably more lighthearted!**

**-Cooking requires…Skill.**

**In which Isabelle tries to repay Mycroft for his kindness, and fails horribly.**


	12. Chapter 11- Cooking requires skill

**Cooking requires…Skill-**

Lily smiled coaxingly at her Uncle, "…And?" she questioned, her voice filled with expectancy. Sherlock frowned, "And, other things happened," he waved his pale hand dismissively.  
The young girl let out an aggravated sigh, "Oh come on!" she groaned. Why did all the adults in her life have to be so flippant?! She kicked her rather short leg out at her Uncle, her foot barely touching his knee before it fell back to the ground, "Just one more story," she coaxed, "And then I'll leave you alone!"  
His gaze fixed on hers, searching for a lie. Though he wouldn't find one no matter how hard he tried, Lillian Holmes was an expert liar. (And worse, a pretty good manipulator too.)  
His upper lip twitched before he let out a soft breath, "Alright," he conceded, "But then I am moving on, I have experiments to finish," at Lily's mouth opening he put a hand up, "And no, you may not watch."

* * *

Isabelle was surprised to find that she enjoyed watching Mycroft cook.  
It wasn't something that would normally cross another person's mind when they thought of spending quality time, but it worked nonetheless.  
He would remove his jacket, draping it perfectly across one of the stools, then roll up his sleeves just to the elbows, and then…he would cook.  
Isabelle hadn't intentionally gone in to watch the first time, but found herself more than a little entranced by the sight of him without one of his layers. She found herself sitting in the corner and focusing on the way he zigzagged around the room, checking the oven or removing lids from boiling pots of water, tossing salads and\or stirring the dish of the day.  
This time, his lithe fingers were gooey with beaten eggs, having dipped fish fillets in the bowl he placed them onto a plate-effectively coating them in bread crumbs which sat upon it.

What surprised Isabelle the most was that Mycroft didn't seem too much care that she was watching! The first time she did it he gave her one of his delightful "what are you doing and why?" stares, before he shrugged her off and continued with what he was doing. The second time a glance was afforded her but nothing more.  
She found it hard to believe that all of his mental faculties were consumed with what he was doing. She also found it confusing that he would even remotely enjoy such a menial task, especially with another mouth to feed (albeit one that didn't eat very much).  
As she watched him put the breaded fish into an oily frying pan, Isabelle found herself speaking up, "Do you enjoy doing this?"  
Burning his fingertip with hot oil he let out a soft hiss before he turned around, "Pardon?  
_You know what I said-_ Isabelle thought to herself childishly before she let it go and repeated the question.  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, running his eggy (and now slightly scorched) fingers under the tap and then delicately picking up the spatula, "I suppose I do, it takes my mind off of things," he said, not looking at her, "In truth I hadn't really thought about it."

Isabelle ran a hand over her hair, fingering the large bun just above the nape of her neck, it had been a task getting the thing to stay and look even remotely sensible. "I can't imagine you would _have_ to think about it," she replied plainly, crossing one leg over the other.  
Mycroft scoffed, "Thought and analyzation must be given to every feeling and emotion, how else would one recognize it?" he said simply, flipping a piece of fish. The heavenly scent rose into the air and made Isabelle's mouth water. Despite the simplicity of the dish, she felt a strong need to eat it off the frying pan before it was even finished.  
She bit her bottom lip, "I guess," she said hesitantly in response. Her brow furrowed as she considered what he'd just said, "But uh, we're losing our topic here. Does Sherlock know how to cook as well as you?"  
His neck craned to give her a wholly condescending stare, "What do you think?" he said, a soft sort of laugh escaping him in a huff of breath, "The last time I remember him properly attempting a dish, he set fire to-well… me," he turned back to what he was doing.  
Isabelle blinked at him, "He set fire to…you?" she repeated slowly, ignoring the return of his condescending glare. Her mouth formed a smile, a laugh threatening to bubble up. She managed to hold back though; having noted long ago that Mycroft never enjoyed being laughed at-even though this was more directed at his odd brother.

"When I was twenty-one, I moved to my own flat, wherein I learned how to prepare food for myself. On the whole, I much preferred to eat my own cooking rather than starve to death. That would have been a ridiculous end and I couldn't allow it," he deadpanned before Isabelle could question him again- as he brought out two glass plates and spatula'd the fish onto them. He to the fridge and pulled out a bowl of tossed salad, dishing out equal portions onto both plates.  
"True, true…" Isabelle replied- a fond smile playing with her mouth, "You know, I bet your mother was an excellent cook. Mine was, though she was always too busy to do it often," She suddenly felt as though something was squeezing her insides. Despite this, she couldn't help but notice the wistful expression Mycroft's face took. It lasted a mere moment before he echoed a soft hum of acknowledgement and pulled on his the mask of indifference, "Indeed."

Isabelle was given a cup of orange juice (per her obviously confusing request) and she carried it into the dining room along with the plate he handed to her. Mycroft rolled down his sleeves and replaced the cufflinks. He of course picked up his suit jacket and slipped his arms into it-then followed his guest into the room.  
"Oh yes," Mycroft said suddenly, having seated in his customary spot, "I'm afraid that I will be working very late tomorrow, so you are on your own when it comes to eating," he said, wrinkling the base of his nose. He obviously disliked the chance of Isabelle ruining the pure tidiness his kitchen possessed.  
Isabelle nodded, "Alright… are you eating out then?" she inquired politely, sipping at her orange juice and savoring the mild burning sensation citrus gave her tongue.  
The man blinked at her, "On a Wednesday?"

_Oh of course, how silly of her._

* * *

Much later, as Isabelle ran a brush through her exceedingly long chestnut hair, she considered what had transpired. Her thin lips formed a soft frown. Mycroft obviously wasn't going to eat until he came home, or he would not eat at all (because he was weird like that), that much she knew. She also knew that he would be tired (he always was apparently). And she _also_ knew that Mycroft was giving her semi free reign of the kitchen to prepare her own dinner… so why couldn't she make something for him?  
Isabelle had not once prepared a real meal for herself, that was left to her parents first, then her sisters, and then she either ate something from the Café or heated some pre-packaged meal in the microwave. The idea of cooking something that didn't have a "microwave option" appealed to her greatly! It also meant that she was given the chance to do something for Mycroft, who had done nothing but give since he'd met her. (Though he insisted on doing it all in the most infuriating ways possible!)  
It was high time she did something besides sit around watch.

Without thinking Isabelle ran a finger over the scar on her cheek. She could tell it hadn't been deep enough to leave a lasting mark, and she was glad of that. But it still hurt to think about… it hurt a lot.  
She took in a thick calming breath…yes, Mycroft definitely deserved to be repaid.

* * *

It occurred to Isabelle as she tied her apron, that life would be so much easier if Mycroft enjoyed presents.  
But he didn't, he outright said it after she'd offhandedly inquired about his birthday not long after they're first "date".

_"On one's birthday one expects presents, but it seems that the identity of the gift must be explained to the 'giver' so that no mistake is made, and so that one needn't return the gift. And if one does not receive a present they like, and they choose to return it, one might risk hurting the giver's feelings… Miss Long if you ever find yourself knowing of my birthday's date, please ignore it completely."_

It was a long winded (and rather snobbish) way of saying "I'm not going to tell you when my birthday is, and if you find out-don't buy me anything". At any rate, she understood that he wasn't the type for that sort of thing. Isabelle pursed her lips, struggling to knot the thick strips of cloth together. Her long pale fingers finally stopped, letting the strings hang at her sides. She ran a hand over her thick braid to ensure no hairs were loose, and then set about searching for a pot.

She was making stew, it seemed simple enough but not so simple that she would be deemed lazy and useless…  
She searched the lower cupboards, finding the shiny metal objects stacked neatly in order of size. She grabbed one of the smaller sized ones and shoved it onto the counter above, the collision making a loud clang against it. This sent cold down Isabelle's spine, having experienced nothing but silence until then. She hated being alone. Unfortunately she was alone often. Whenever Maria or Gloria decided to go out partying, or at her job when her co-worker was sick. Isabelle had nowhere else to go, no one else to talk to…until she met Jack for the first time. And then Drew, and finally Roger (unimaginative names though they might have). They provided a voice and body to be around-and perhaps it was that that drove them away. Isabelle was too clingy….Isabelle, was too Isabelle.

She shoved those thoughts from her mind as she got to her feet, absently kicking the cupboard door closed. She filled the pot about halfway with water then rested it on the burner, turning it to the highest heat setting. She assumed the smart thing was to get it boiling right away.  
She plopped two bouillon cubes in there for good measure, then set about haphazardly chopping up vegetables.  
Isabelle learned a lot in the process, such as: Onions make your eyes sting and water like crazy. And: If you're chopping a potato, keep your finger out of the way!  
She nearly avoided losing an important part of her hand to that last bit. She scraped the potato, onion, carrot and celery off of the counter and into her hands, then threw them into the pot. Alright, good… now what?  
She watched it all swirl in the now simmering water, looking pitiful. Isabelle decided that stirring it would help, and so grabbed a thin wooden spoon from one of the drawers.  
Stirred- done. Good.  
She wasn't sure if this counted as stew or soup actually. As she plucked a chicken-y piece of celery from the pot and munched on it, Isabelle wondered if Mycroft actually liked stew…or soup, and seriously hoped that he did.

It didn't take long for the _stoup _vegetables to start burning to the bottom of the pot, which meant constant stirring. She turned the heat down, but it didn't cool down soon enough to prevent carrot chunks attaching to the pot like leeches on skin. The potatoes were also a bit -starchy. So a chicken flavored froth sat idly over the liquid.  
Isabelle wanted to cry, but that might have been the residual onion left on the counter. She eventually turned the heat off, and just let the whole thing sit so she could think….and that was when Mycroft came home.  
He was early! This wasn't good, the stoup wasn't ready! She turned the heat back on, and then frantically turned the tap on to wet a wash cloth. His counters were covered in bits of onion, carrot and potato. The celery leaves had been lopped off and set aside in a heap. And she had also forgot to put away the bouillon container, or washed the dishes… it wasn't a disaster by any normal means-but Mycroft was nit-picky and obsessive about certain things being perfect- his kitchen was one of those things.

She listened as he carefully put his umbrella into the stand, and then pulled off what was probably his fourth layer, most likely damp with rain. Then she heard the slight sound of perfect shoes as he made his way to the stairs-not bothering to stop by the kitchen as she suspected earlier. But he must have smelled the stoup because he turned around and peered into the room.  
Isabelle smiled halfheartedly, "Hi," she greeted with a waggle of her fingers. "I hadn't realized you were still awake," he commented, stormy gray eyes taking in the state of disarray around his guest.  
"I know but I wanted to surprise you, with um…stoup?"  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her, "Stoup? As in a basin for holy water?" a smile tugged very lightly at the left corner of his mouth. Isabelle took it in for a moment before she shook her head, "Uh no," she laughed, "I think I'd have to be a priest to make holy water."

Mycroft was suddenly standing quite close to her to look inside the pot, "Oh I see, a mixture of stew and soup. I do believe that what you have just prepared could be best described as soup," he concluded.  
Isabelle couldn't help but smile at him in her usual crooked manner, a blush spreading over her freckled nose and cheeks, "Alright, I made us soup."  
The well-dressed man beside her reached across the pot and turned the burner down, "Is there a particular reason you decided to prepare soup for me?" he inquired, taking the spoon from her grip and running it through the watery chicken flavored mess. Isabelle tried to ignore the way his upper lip curled ever so slightly upwards when he saw the burned bits floating inside what she'd made. Though she noted absently that he had nice teeth.  
"I wanted to uh… I wanted to show you that I was grateful for all that you've done. I just didn't know how to say it outright without soup to cushion the blow," she managed to tighten her smile.  
Mycroft made a small tsk-ing sound, "I'm aware Isabelle that not everyone would have done what I have, and I accept your thanks, _but _it is really not a burden to me in the slightest so I find it unwarranted and unwanted."

The way he shrugged off her gratitude made something cold slide down Isabelle's throat and settle in her stomach. _At least_, she thought, _he didn't find her a burden_. Which somehow made her feel worse.  
Without her having noticed, Mycroft ladled the soup into two glass bowls he had gotten from the upper cupboard. He them onto the counter to fetch spoons, then moved carried the items into the dining room.  
Isabelle was forced to follow, dearly hoping that the food she'd made didn't taste like garbage because that would very much add insult to injury.

As it turned out, it didn't. It just didn't taste exactly…good. The carrots were woefully undercooked while the onions and potatoes were the opposite. The celery was a stringy mix of over and under, and Isabelle found herself wondering just how she managed it!  
To his credit, Mycroft consumed the whole bowl full, to which Isabelle appreciated. It didn't stop her from feeling completely inadequate though-but what else was new?  
When the two were finished Isabelle found her voice, "I'm sorry."  
He blinked at her, folding up the cloth napkin he'd gathered without his guest's notice, "About what?"  
It was Isabelle's turn to scoff at him, "As if you don't know. I'm sorry I bothered even trying to cook. I should have just written you a card, b-but even then I'd probably find a way to mess it up!" she curled her fingers tightly around the empty spoon in her hand.

Mycroft suddenly looked…angry! Which surprised Isabelle more than a little. She watched as he stood up and in front of her, forcing her to look up from her seated position, "I am growing increasingly tired of your incessant self-deprecation," he said in what struck Isabelle as an almost "fatherly" tone. She imagined that he didn't realize he was doing it. His voice softened as he sat in a chair before her, "You cannot expect to go into anything and be good at it immediately," he admonished, "And yet, you shouldn't expect to be bad at everything you try to do either."  
She blinked at him, the cold that had settled in her stomach suddenly turning warm as the soup she'd prepared. For the first time in a while, she didn't feel as though she was being talked _at_, but talked _with_! And it felt so freeing, even if she'd experienced it before.  
"Ok," she said, trying to swallow the lump which had formed in her throat, "I get what you're saying, I'm sorry," she apologized, though she wished she hadn't at the look he gave her. Part of her wanted to explain all the other things she'd tried to do it life only to fail spectacularly! And the things she'd never try because she already knew how it would end. But this was Mycroft in one of his most earnest moments, something she rarely saw-but adored. And she couldn't burst his bubble with her failure.

"If you'd like, I could-perhaps- teach you a few things about preparing stoup," he managed a tight smile. Isabelle returned it, "Would you really help me?" she asked without thinking. Mycroft nodded, "Of course, I find it much better than you watching me like a stalker," he replied.  
Isabelle found her hand reaching forwards and taking his, admiring his thin perfect fingers and their well-manicured fingernails as she squeezed, "I know you think it's unwarranted but… thank you."  
He managed to overcome is mild surprise enough to squeeze in return, even though the action ended in him retracting his hand, "If I'm going to teach you anything, I believe it's warranted," he teased with a soft click of tongue against teeth.  
Isabelle laughed, "Alright, alright I get it!"

The two stood up and began clearing dishes. When they were finished Isabelle let out a yawn and turned towards the stairs, "Goodnight Mycroft," Isabelle said with a yawn, the feeling still resting comfortably inside of her.  
"Goodnight Isabelle," Mycroft replied plainly, cleaning up the mess she'd left for him. Isabelle had offered to help, but he'd said no. Big surprise.  
All well, she really didn't care that much.  
As Isabelle began her walk to the stairs, a voice surprised her, "Oh yes, and, Isabelle?"  
She turned to face him, "Yeah?"

"You're welcome."

* * *

**Sappy ain't it? X)**

**Ok,**

**1: I'm really sorry this took so long, I had writers block and then I couldn't sit down for very long without getting jumpy, and then…I cut my thumb open! SO, yeah. **

**2: This chapter seems kind of long, I don't know how you guys feel about that. Do you like longer chapters or shorter? Or do you not care in the slightest and want me to shut up? Lol**

**3: What do you think of the cover image? I got it off Google Images and then fixed the hair to be much longer than it was, and I did try to make it look like the guy had a bigger nose, but it didn't work all that well. Lol**

**The next chapter is called….**

**"A is for…"**

**In which it's not what you think, and Isabelle finally is able to move past the life she'd left behind with the help of common sense AKA Mycroft Holmes. ;)  
We also have a little more stuff for Lillian to do, seeing as her whole part in this thing is getting people to talk about Isabelle, and I do like her character. (because I made her up of course)**


	13. Chapter 12-A is for

**I put in a "sort of" quote from the books in here, see if you can guess where it is…it's kind of obvious looking back, but you might like looking for it lol.**

**Oh yeah, and you might have to stretch your suspension of disbelief for this one. I'll defend what I wrote at the end – Sophia Banks ;)**

* * *

**A is for…-**

Lily frowned, "How did you know all that?" she asked, having obviously noticed the lack of her Uncle within the story. Sherlock shrugged, "I read it."  
The young girl shoved a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, "What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"Weren't you going to leave-?"  
"Uncle Sherlock!"

The two glared at each other for what seemed like forever, before her Uncle finally stood up and walked into his room.  
Lillian assumed that Sherlock had abandoned her until a few moments later he came down with a thick scrappy looking book in his hands. He casually tossed it onto his Niece's lap, "You can keep it," he said in that deep rumble of his.  
Lily held the book loosely in her hands, staring at the worn cover. It had a sloppily penned in "Isabelle Long\Holmes" upon it. She swallowed, "Did she give this to you?"

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls absent mindedly, "I might have stolen it after her death," he said in a surprisingly offhand manner.  
Lily blinked, "You…what?"  
"Please spare me the moral argument and take it," Sherlock said stiffly, "Oh, and leave. Do that too."  
The young blonde glared at her Uncle as she stood up, "Nice visiting you Uncle Sherlock."  
Despite the sharpness of her tone, she did mean it. As bothersome as he was; she liked her Uncle a lot. He was more like her than her father ever was. And had John been there, Sherlock would have probably been less bothered.

Leaving 221B Lillian toyed with her mother's diary, fingering a latch which had been expertly lock-picked open. Bastian Kirk brought the car around and swung the door open for her before sitting back in the driver's seat.  
On the way home, Lily found herself opening the book to the third page, her mother having apparently started the diary only a few days before the whole "stoup" incident. She struggled to read Isabelle Holmes' ridiculous handwriting, but eventually could make it out.

* * *

"Do you have any questions for me while we're here?"

Isabelle shook her head with a forced (though hopefully not noticeably so) smile on her face, in front of Madelyn Ross, fingers playing in her lap.  
The interview was almost over, and while Isabelle had shown off her skills to the best of her ability, she was certain the job wasn't going to happen. To be secretary for a (semi) minor government employee? Yeah, no. That sort of thing required skill.  
"We've proven that you are a decently quick typist, a good listener and a fast enough learner," Madelyn said puzzlingly, "I understand you haven't had many work experiences of this type?"  
Madelyn Ross inquired this with a light smile stretched across her face, showing off dimples Isabelle hadn't realized she had. The woman in question was somewhat short in stature (at least compared to Isabelle) and heavy set, with dark skin and well styled short black hair. She was quite beautiful in Isabelle's eyes, with those perfect coffee brown eyes and kind natured smiles.  
"Yes, I worked for six years as a Waitress, nothing else," Isabelle supplied, forcing herself not to stutter. She wished dearly that she would have had something else to add to her résumé.  
"Look, Miss Long. I already know I like you… and I would like to believe you like me too. I think if we can manage to teach you about our system, it'll work out just fine."

Isabelle stared blankly for a moment before she managed to speak, "A-are you hiring me?" she yelped, trying to keep the emphasis off of the word "me" just in case.  
Madelyn nodded, "I'm giving you a probation period Miss Long, if you prove yourself to be of use to me, then I'll take you on as my secretary."  
Isabelle watched as Mrs. Ross stood up and perused for the fourth time through her résumé, "The fact that you could keep work six years within a confined job and have no official complaints about your conduct or attitude says a lot Miss Long."  
The brunette nodded, "Thank you," she said, only realizing later how out of place those two words were. Madelyn raised an eyebrow, "You're welcome," she replied smartly.  
The file was slapped shut, "If you're interested in this job, it's yours."

Isabelle felt something nearly choke her on its escape, "Yes!" she managed, forcing down the need to squeal with delight. She'd gotten the job! And on the day too! Oh God the other applicants must have been absolutely terrible!  
Isabelle tried not to deflate at the thought, especially when another struck her hard. "Mrs. Ross?"  
"Yes?"  
"Do you-uh- know anyone by the name of Mycroft Holmes?" she ran her hands down her legs to flatten her skirt, though the action seemed rather pointless.  
She saw Mrs. Ross's eyes widen, "Oh God I'd forgotten about him!" a chuckle escaped her, a warm laugh which forced a smile onto Isabelle's face.  
"I've _certainly_ heard of him! We worked together for about a month before that well-dressed son of a- *ahem*- got noticed by the higher ups and was promoted to who knows what position."  
The young woman before her couldn't help but note no bitterness in Mrs. Ross's voice, which eased something inside of her. Madelyn knew Mycroft, and probably liked him a bit.  
"So you don't know what his position is now?" she inquired in the most unobtrusive manner possible. Madelyn scoffed, "I don't think anyone really knows except him really," she shrugged, "When I working with him he would come up with some…amazing things. They began by using him as a short-cut, a convenience; he made himself essential. In that computer of a brain everything was pigeon-holed and could be handed out in an instant. Working with and around him I felt invisible, but he was always overly polite to me and everyone-unless you made a mistake of course, than you were looked down upon like you were some blundering idiot standing in his way."  
Isabelle nodded in understanding, "I know exactly what you mean," she replied.  
"Now, I guess the conclusions of every department are passed through him, and he's considered the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the balance of everything… ever hear of the word omniscience?"

_How poetical_, Isabelle thought despite herself, yet she found herself nodding in agreement and understanding.  
Madelyn shook her head, "Sorry, I seemed to have gone off on a tangent. But you mentioned his name and it all came flooding back," she shuddered good naturedly.  
Remembering the reason she asked the question in the first place, the young woman spoke, "So you had no idea that I knew Mycroft before I mentioned it just now?"  
"No, of course not. Why?"

"Oh… no reason."

* * *

"Mycroft!"

Isabelle felt rather like a little kid excited about having made a new friend as she darted through the mansion in search of her host. The man in question turned out to be in his office (she knocked before entering of course, she didn't have a death wish).  
"What is it?" he inquired without looking up from whatever work he was doing, the finger of his left hand pressed against his lips whilst the other sat curved against the ridge of his laptop, pointer finger moving across the trackpad.  
"I got the job, I got the job, I got the job!" she danced on her feet, rushing forwards and slinging her long arms around his neck.  
The choked yelp Mycroft expelled did nothing to quell Isabelle's enthusiasm, "She hired me, someone actually hired me and it wasn't because of family or-or you or anything! She liked me!"  
"That's um… very nice my dear," he tentatively brought a hand up and patted her shoulder twice before letting it drop.  
Regaining her senses at least a little bit Isabelle pulled away, a grin spread widely across her face. The slowly fading scar on her cheek was consumed by smile lines.  
"I'm very happy for you," Mycroft supplied, running a hand across his long neck as if to ensure he could no longer feel her touch on his skin. Were it anyone but Isabelle standing in front of him, they might have been hurt by the action. But now, she couldn't begin to care!  
Isabelle slumped into the chair in front of her former boyfriend's desk, numerous thoughts running rampant through her mind. Why did Mrs. Ross hire her exactly? Would she make it past the probation period without showing her true colors? How long would it take more Madelyn to realize that hiring Isabelle Lillian Long-was a huge mistake?  
She crumbled, her low self-esteem crushing her like a steamroller. Mycroft typed a few things into the laptop before he shut it, "Hired during your first interview, she must have really liked you," he said in a kind tone of voice-he must have noticed her suddenly falling into depression.  
Amazing how quickly one could turn from elated to unhappy within the course of a few seconds.

Isabelle shook her head, "Yeah she liked me, I have a perfect personality," she said sarcastically, punctuating her point with raised hands, "I work sooo hard!"  
She was aware of the piercing gray eyed stare he was giving her, boring through her like a laser beam. This was obviously a step back from what he thought he'd taught her in the "stoup" incident. Even though she'd gotten better at soup preparation, Isabelle still felt the harsh glare of her own pessimism- _"If Mycroft hadn't been here, I'd have burned the house down!"._

"You don't what I'm really like when I try to do anything _really _worthwhile!"

He sighed wearily, tapping his fingertips against the top of his desk, "Exactly how deep does this run Isabelle?"  
"What?" the young woman snapped.  
Mycroft curled his fingers beneath his palm, "The emotional abuse doled out by your-frankly-idiotic siblings? How deep does it run?"  
The sharpness in his voice made Isabelle sputter, "Y-you just don't get it! ...And I was not _abused_!"

The two frowned at each other, eyes narrowed. Isabelle saw his lower jaw jut out in a strangely defiant manner.  
She returned the gesture, "Look," she finally managed to say through the oppressive silence, "It's really nice that you're trying to help me get over this but… there are some things you just can't fix-and I'm one of them!"

Mycroft leaned forwards and rested his forearms against the desk, "No one is perfect Isabelle."  
_"I'm sure you'd think differently if this was about __you__" _Isabelle thought unfairly, but held back. The two stared a moment longer. This wasn't like the comfortable silence the two had shared before, that nice "I understand what you're thinking" silence. _No_, this was brooding and unhappy silence that consumed the area like fire.  
"Mycroft I- I want you to understand, so I'm going to explain something to you nice and simple," Isabelle said, heat rising on her cheeks, "I'm a…I was a…" she tugged at her braid, "An accident. My parents didn't plan me."  
A pause.  
And then, curiously, laughter.  
Isabelle looked wide eyed at Mycroft who echoed a cute little giggle, "Are you quite serious?" he questioned.  
Isabelle felt heat consume the rest of her, "Yes! I…I don't get it, what's so funny?"  
Mycroft managed to quell (quite easily actually) the chuckle which had uncharacteristically escaped him, "My dear I fail to see what you being an _accident _has to do with anything! Many thousands of people were unplanned and it means absolutely nothing."  
Isabelle blinked at him, fingers gripping folds of her skirt, "What?" she yelped, "B-but my sisters said that… I mean, ever since I was five…I didn't try to learn how to drive till I was twenty because… WHAT?!"

"Did you seriously believe that being of an unplanned pregnancy made you a lesser person?" his gaze switched from amusement to a flicker of outrage on her behalf, and intrigue as well. How someone in the modern day could make such an idiotic mistake- with the internet at her fingertips to look up such things!  
"I…" Isabelle felt her own heartbeat, "This is a trick right? You're just trying to make me feel better, right?" she dug her nails into her thighs.  
Mycroft shook his head solemnly.  
The young woman felt outrageously stupid at that moment, and she stopped to consider this.  
Ever since she was five years old it had been hung over her head by Maria and Gloria, perhaps it had started as a backwards trick and had evolved into something horrible-but there it was. That alongside being too "Isabelle" and the constant put downs, the terrible breakups, the general uncaring of everyone around her…  
"I understand you're upset-"  
"Upset?" Isabelle interrupted, "No, I'm not upset…I'm pissed!"  
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, having not heard anything worse than "Shit" or "God" out of her before.

"I get that not all my actions were because I thought being an accident was a terrible thing but…God, they wouldn't stop using it! I never thought to ask my mom or dad, I thought it would upset them…I trusted Maria and Gloria to know what they were talking about!"  
Mycroft nodded, "My Dear I am sorry. But perhaps this moment could lead you to becoming a better person. A more _aware_ person," he supplied dutifully.  
Isabelle glared at him, "I'm not thinking about character growth here Mycroft," she said stiffly, though a smile managed to force its way onto her mouth.  
She was amazed that throughout all of this, she had been taken by righteous anger rather than her usual need to cry and curl into a ball!  
She looked across the desk at Mycroft Holmes with his _"You're having emotions and I'm not quite sure what to do with that"_ expression. His fingers seemed to hover over the desk's surface, a light touch as though he feared he might break through it if he press any harder. Isabelle wished he would touch her like that again, just a stroke of his fingers across her cheek or the soft press of his lips against hers.

She still loved him.

She licked her dry lips, "I got a job," she echoed the words she had said not ten minutes ago, a slight twittering of excitement rising in her voice.  
She managed to shove aside her feelings towards the man in front of her and focus on what (at that juncture) was really important.  
If everything Maria and Gloria had ever told her was a lie (which she was now very inclined to believe) than there was no such thing as being _too Isabelle_! Um, well. That wasn't entirely true she supposed, but that was beside the point.  
"Indeed you did My Dear," Mycroft said, pulling back into his chair and lacing his fingers together.

"Oh jeez," Isabelle sighed, "I feel weird. Like everything I ever believed was a lie, like I could have been something besides a waitress if I had actually tried!"  
"You are something different now, you're moving on," came the reply.

"Yeah… who knew moving forward was this hard!"

* * *

**-warning, long authors note ahoy!**

**If you guessed "Madelyn Ross (sort of) said it…than you're right!  
Here's the actual quote unedited (and taken off Wiki so I didn't have to copy it from the book haha) :**

**"He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience. We will suppose that a minister needs information as to a point which involves the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic question; he could get his separate advices from various departments upon each, but only Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how each factor would affect the other. They began by using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In that great brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in an instant." –Sherlock Holmes**

**I just…really wanted to fit this in somewhere. Haha (And Ohmygosh I love the character of Mycroft. I might just fit quotes from the book at the end of each chapter so you can delight in his awesomeness too! lol)**

**-Anyways, the whole "Accident" thing I said I was going to defend (though you didn't know it at the time). I don't know if people actually have a problem with it or not, but it crossed my mind that it might be considered unrealistic. Yet, I guess I don't agree with that. (See, I'm arguing with myself here on something you probably don't even care about XD)  
Isabelle grew up with it, Maria and Gloria shoved it in her face to win arguments against her and basically put her in her place. They weren't exactly terrible people when doing this (at least early on), just shoving their emotional turmoil onto Isabelle after their parent's subsequent passing. Besides that, they were twins. Isabelle was the odd one out, and they liked to mess with her.  
Anywho, Isabelle took everything they said to heart and turned into a wreck. She didn't have it as bad as some "real" people did of course! But still, it was a bit "Not good".**

**This whole thing was written in one sit down, so please forgive me if it seems rushed, and if there are a million typos...**

**I'll be quiet now!:**

**The next chapter is called "Hospitably hospitalized".**

**In which we switch our attention to Mycroft and a few of his own personal failings, and Isabelle freaks out a**


	14. Chapter 13- Hospitably hospitalized

**Hospitably hospitalized-**

Lily gripped the page between two fingers, wrinkling her overlarge nose. She supposed her mother had needed to get over herself at some stinking point, but still. Ug.  
She rested the book against her legs, biting her bottom lip. Bastian Kirk (the Driver) shot a glance behind him, "Everythin' alright Miss 'olmes?" he asked gently.  
The young girl looked up, "Yep, good. Fine. Bored," she added with the wave of a dismissive hand for good measure. She knew Bastian wouldn't question it if the _young Miss Holmes_ was bored. She always was.  
She contemplated closing the book and forgetting it, if the whole thing was going to be this mish-mash of mush. But she found her fingers slipping beneath the current page and turning it to see the next entry. Surprised to find the first sentence to be a quickly penned in-

_ I can't explain right now what's going on, but I feel I should write this down before I explode:_

_I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!_

* * *

Isabelle wondered if she should feel like a new person right about now. She didn't. Not really. She also felt really embarrassed about dumping her problems on Mycroft in such a crude manner.  
It had been about a week since the whole "Accident" conversation, and she still couldn't let it go. Should she have presented it differently? She probably should have kept the stupid thing to herself because Mycroft obviously found it rather amusing! Mind you, he was very good at hiding the fact when talking to her directly.  
She hated those pitying looks he would give her from behind her back; she could just imagine what he was thinking: _"Poor pathetic people and their piddly little self-induced problems".  
_All well, she wasn't going to be too upset about it. Isabelle was quick to forgive on certain things, and someone pitying her was something she could easily let go of, mostly because it was always there._  
_Mind you, she hadn't seen much of Mycroft the last three days or so. He must have had something very important going on at work because he would leave sometime before Isabelle woke up, and come home after she fell asleep…one night he hadn't come home at all!  
It worried her a bit, because Mycroft seemed the type of person to go days without sleep for something he deemed important. For most people, going three days without sleep would end disastrously! But this was Mycroft. Mycroft was invincible. Or so he seemed to think.  
The way he carried himself was that of a man thinking he could handle anything thrown at him, be it the size of an elephant or otherwise. And he did have an amazing mind, but that mind was going to _fail him _some day.

Isabelle ran a sponge across one of the glass plates, bubbles collected on her bony wrists which sat just above the hot water. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration, as though washing dishes was a truly important task. Her fingers were becoming prune-y due to submersion, making the whole thing a bit uncomfortable. But she'd promised to do it, she'd insisted that she do it, she wanted to be helpful!  
Madelyn Ross had given Isabelle a half day because she herself had one, there was very little that needed doing in her department.  
"Evenin' Miss Long!" Said a decidedly male voice from the doorway that Isabelle _had not_ expected. The plate slipped from her grasp and slammed against the metal bottom of the sink. It didn't break, thankfully, but it scared the daylights out of her to even consider it!  
Her hand shot up to her chest as she levelled her breathing, effectively soaking the front of her shirt. "God, Bastian don't do that!" she yelped.

Bastian Kirk, Mycroft's youngest, newest, stupidest, and yet _most trustworthy _driver, blinked at her. "Jeez, sorry Miss Long, you alright?" he asked, running a hand over his curly light brown hair.  
Isabelle couldn't help but smile at the earnest expression that went across the Driver's face, "I'm ok Bastian, you just startled me," she supplied, drying her hands off on a hand towel.  
Bastian smiled crookedly, "Good," he said with a huff of laughter, "I'd thought I'd given you an 'eart attack!"  
"Well, you didn't," Isabelle said, putting her now dried hands on her hips.  
The Driver seemed to realize that he was interrupting something, and stepped back, "Right, well I'm just gonna go upstairs for a sec' Miss Long, then I'll be out your way," he said in a rush.  
Isabelle rolled her eyes, "Alright Bastian," she replied fondly.

He took about three steps before it struck Isabelle that Bastian being in the house when _Mycroft wasn't-_was very unusual!  
"Bastian what are you doing here?" she called, walking over and arching around the doorway to see the young Driver halfway up the stairs. He turned around, "I'm getting' Mr. 'olmes's laptop," he replied simply.  
"Right, but why does he need his home office laptop? He couldn't have forgotten it," she questioned further, stepping all the way into the hall.  
Bastian did another run through his hair with his fingers, "I'm not s'posed to tell you Miss Long, 'e said not to tell you anything. Just go in and get out!" he gave her an imploring look.  
Isabelle's brow furrowed, her lips forming a displeased frown. What on earth was this about? It wasn't as though Isabelle knew anything about Mycroft's work, so why keep that information from her? Why couldn't he just use his office laptop? She was pretty certain that that one had more vital information on it!  
She tugged at the edge of her shirt, "Bastian, what's going on?" she pushed, taking a step forwards. The young man cleared his throat, "I'm s'posed to keep secrets Miss Long, that's part of my job you know so uh… I can't tell you."  
Isabelle walked closer, looking up at him with narrowed Hazel eyes, "Bastian I am quite certain you can trust me," she replied.  
The young man sighed heavily through his mouth, "Fine, but please don't tell 'im I told you because he might sack me if 'e knows… Mr. 'olmes is at the hospital."

And suddenly Isabelle was staggering backwards a step, eyes wide, "H-he's what?!" she yelped, perhaps a little too shrilly because Bastian winced.  
"See, I wasn't s'posed to tell you!" he complained, coming down to her level.  
Isabelle wasn't listening though. All sorts of terrible thoughts ran through her head, he'd been shot, he had some sort of terrible car accident, he'd fallen down some stairs and gotten a terrible head injury! Perhaps they were all rather farfetched-Bastian clearly wasn't hurt which ruled out car accident. And most certainly if Mycroft was _really _hurt, he wouldn't be able to request his laptop or tell Bastian to keep the whole think secret!  
All reasoning seemed to fly through the window.  
She remembered when her mother had fallen ill, nearly ten years after the death of their father. Isabelle had sat at her hospital bedside and told her about the day she'd had, or how things were going with her new boyfriend (she was only fifteen at the time). Neither Maria nor Gloria were very willing to come and visit, Maria especially had a hard time grasping that her mother was near death.  
Gloria would pace the living room and then grill Isabelle about the visit, then tell her what an idiot she was for not doing a better job of cheering up Mrs. Long.

Without her noticing Bastian had run upstairs and collected the laptop. It was now clutched beneath his right arm, left hand gripping the edge protectively. "Miss Long, if uh…If you wanna come with I guess you can," he said, eyes filled with sympathy. Isabelle wondered if he had a sick parent or family member, maybe a girlfriend. He obviously understood how upset she currently was.  
"Yes, thank you Bastian," Isabelle replied distractedly, "I'll just be a second."  
She made a dash upstairs, gave General Stuffington a self-consoling hug, wrote a quick note in her diary, then grabbed her back which had her wallet, a water bottle and a container of ibuprofen which she knew she was going to need! Then she went back downstairs, following Bastian to the car.

* * *

The Hospital smelled…clean. Like someone had dipped the whole building in bleach and disinfectant. It wasn't the worst smell she'd ever come across. And in a way, she'd always assumed Mycroft's room would smell sort of like that. But it still made her discomfort (and a sense of unease) rise.  
Isabelle could feel her heart hammering wildly in her chest as more and more outlandish situations ran through her mind. Had she voiced them, she was sure Bastian would have consoled her and told her that none of those things were actually true. But she hadn't, and thus _he didn't_.

She fingered the strap of her bag as they arrived at the door to Mycroft's room. A man in informal clothing stood off to the side, scrutinizing them deeply before he seemed to shrug them off as unimportant.  
Bastian entered the room first, "Sir," he nodded his head to Mycroft was seated atop the blankets on the bed in middle of the room. He was wearing his button up shirt and dark pants, but his vest and jacket had been pulled off and folded neatly on one of the visitor's chairs. He looked pale, er, paler than usual; his hair a little damp with what Isabelle could only assume was sweat. Otherwise he looked no worse for wear.  
Isabelle might have been furious first if she hadn't been so relieved! Something caught in her throat as she ran forwards and embraced Mycroft and eventually brought him into a kiss.

It was cold and clammy, but it still felt oh-so-right. Her head tilted she pressed her lips hard against his until he opened his mouth a little. Then she pulled back, she was more sensible than to do anything further.  
He stared at her with confused stormy gray eyes, his lips still parted, "Uh," he cleared his throat, "Good evening Isabelle."  
Well… she expected a little more of a reaction than _that_. Fury finally made its way to the top of her to-do list, "Good evening? That's all you have to say? My God Mycroft what happened?!" she demanded.  
"I'll just wait outside shall I?" Bastian said in a light and uncomfortable tone of voice before he left the room.

"Nothing life threatening my dear I-"

"Oh right, so it's unimportant just because it didn't _kill you_?" Isabelle interrupted sharply, crossing her arms in front of her chest.  
He swallowed, "Yes," he replied coolly.  
Isabelle ran a hand across the hair on her scalp, fingers digging into flesh before they parted, "I hate you," she mumbled tersely, "How dare you!"  
"How dare I? You are the one that stormed in here and decided to kiss me!" he said defensively, "Obviously without any idea if I had some sort of contagious disease!" his voice had risen uncomfortably, so he took in a calming breath.  
Isabelle did the same, deciding it was much better than decking a sick man, "I was scared sick," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, "What is wrong with you?" she pressed.  
She saw Mycroft's jaw set before he managed a reply, "Nausea, chest pains, and what felt like a migraine. They're running a few tests to be sure it's nothing of importance (as I stated earlier, it clearly wasn't) then I shall leave," he shrugged listlessly.

Isabelle swallowed a lump in her throat, "B-but you're better now?" she asked, toying with her fingers. He nodded, "Perfectly."

She wasn't sure where to go from there. Yell at him, kiss him again, or storm out in a huff? She really wasn't sure, so she stood there awkwardly. "I guess I'm just glad you're ok," she managed to say through the blockage in her throat. God she had been so scared! What if he had been in a coma? Or lost his entire left arm? ...that was possible right?  
The way he seemed to shrug off what had happened made her sick to her stomach, because he had always concerned about _her_ wellbeing. Why not his own? Was he too proud to care? Was this a Holmes thing?  
"Please, explain to me just-just one more thing before you continue," Isabelle interrupted as she rubbed at her right temple, "If I hadn't come here, would you have told me about this? Would you have _come to me_ and told me that you had been in the hospital because of nausea and chest pains?"

He gave her a blank stare, "Of course."

Somehow, she didn't believe him. She _really, really_ didn't. Ever since there first walk in the rain, she'd realized that Mycroft was not a "sharer". He didn't share his feelings, he didn't explain personal matters, he certainly didn't share his drinks because apparently that was "ickier" than kissing her. He shared the muffin upon their first meeting- that was good. But it had nothing to do with his brother, or his own wellbeing!  
Her hands clenched into fists at her side, "I nearly had an aneurism because I thought you might have been in a car accident," she yelped.  
More awkward silence…wonderful.  
Isabelle dragged a chair over to Mycroft's bedside, whilst he opened his laptop and typed in the password -and then a few more passwords. His lips were pursed in annoyance, brow furrowed slightly as he focused on the screen in front of him.  
"You know you can tell me anything right?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, "I won't hate you or become angry, I won't judge. I'm not like that."  
"I know you aren't my dear," he responded wearily, brushing back his dark brown hair with his fingers before he started typing.  
"I told you about the 'Accident' thing, I told you about MY life," Isabelle continued, regardless of his general uncaring, "why can't you tell me when you're sick and in the hospital?"

He didn't respond, but he wasn't really given much time to do it, because the Doctor entered the room. "Alright Mr. Holmes," she said pleasantly, "You're free to go."  
Mycroft gave a kind smile (one that Isabelle recognized as false, but the Doctor did not). "What's wrong with him?" Isabelle asked.  
The Doctor raised an eyebrow at her, "And you are-?"  
"A friend," Isabelle said tersely, "what's wrong with him?"  
The woman offered a tight smile at the obvious irate family member\friend, "A number of things, sleep deprivation, a heavy dosage of stress, and to a smaller degree-malnourishment."

"Wow Mycroft, you went for the trifecta!" Isabelle said, slightly hysterical laughter edging around her words. He smiled softly at her despite himself, but said nothing.  
"If you want my opinion, I recommend a few days of rest, three meals a day, and avoidance of stressful situations," the Doctor continued, pressing the back of one hand against her hip, a sideways smirk on her face.  
"Of course, thank you," Mycroft supplied in that falsely happy tone of his. The Doctor seemed to accept this response and she left the room.  
Mycroft turned off his laptop and closed it, then stood up to pull on his other layers of clothing.

"You were lying weren't you," Isabelle deadpanned.  
He turned to her, "Of course I was," he replied, a wry smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. At the stare she was giving him, he amended his statement, "I assure you I will do a satisfactory job of feeding myself and sleeping My Dear, but I cannot go a day-"  
"No way are you going back to work!" Isabelle interrupted, because she knew it was going to take a year for him to finish that sentence.  
He blinked at her, "I most certainly am," he replied, more than a little petulantly. Isabelle raised her eyebrows, "Yeah, uh. No you're not. And I'm going to ensure it! You're staying home for a few days and recovering from…whatever this just was," she crossed her arms tightly around her thin body. She found herself standing strong on this; usually she was very passive about people doing what they wanted. She could never convince them to stop, so why bother? But this, this was different. Mycroft was most certainly going to be watched by Isabelle, and to some extent Bastian-because Isabelle had a job now.

He looked at her with jaw muscled tight and a piercing stare before his resolve seemed to crumple, "Fine," he said stiffly, brushing past her and exiting the room.

Yep, this was going to be fun…

* * *

**ThatClarinetGirl: Haha, thank you! Funny works, I'll take funny and run with it. X)**

**Three chapters in one month?...I'm on a roll! XD **

**At any rate, thanks to everyone that has favorited, followed, and reviewed thus far-that's absolutely awesome! I hope this one is more satisfactory than the last one.  
Excuse inaccuracies in the whole Hospital bit, I don't think I've ever been sick or hurt enough to need to stay at a hospital for very long. (I'm very lucky)**

**I'll try to have the next chapter up soon:**

**"Blackest of Moods"  
In which three days of basically doing nothing takes its toll on Mycroft, and Isabelle finds herself to be rather tolerant.  
Also, lots of fluff at the end for good measure.**


	15. Chapter 14- Blackest of Moods

**Blackest of moods-**

The car came to a stop outside of "Holmes Manor". Bastian opened the door for her, smiling that wide slightly off kilter smile. It unnerved Lily a little bit to see a small streak of gray mingling in his brown curls as she passed, but she managed to effectively shove it to the back of her mind. "'ave a nice day Miss 'olmes," he said kindly, gently closing the door behind her.  
"Yeah, yeah," she replied tersely, "Same you to, all that stuff."  
He laughed before climbing back into the vehicle and driving it to the usual parking space.  
Lily carried the diary under her arm, one finger stuck in between the pages to keep her spot. She opened the door to find classical music playing loudly in the kitchen. Her father was probably preparing supper\dinner (she really didn't know the difference, and didn't care to know if there actually was one).  
As it turned to a very loud Toccatina of some sort, Lily found a groan escaping her lips. No peace and quiet for the terminally annoyed.  
She made her way to the library and sat down in one of the cushiest chairs, pulling the small book open. Inside was a set of instructions for some weird board game that Lily had never seen nor played, words scribbled saying "_Remember how to play_!" right next to it before the real story was laid out.

* * *

It became quite apparent that Mycroft hated being coddled…he well and truly despised it.  
The first day of "staying home and not working" was interesting. Mycroft didn't want to stay in bed all day, nor did he want to move around all that much because it made him dizzy (and well, because he was Mycroft). So it was sort of a mix and match of sitting pathetically at the dining room table or in the library and walking _even more_ pathetically around the house. At one point she caught him pacing, but he stopped doing it when it made him nauseous and he ended up expelling the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet (much disinfectant was used that day).

On the second day it was easier, having eaten actual food that had nutrients within them, and having slept at least a little (Isabelle certainly hadn't gone into his room to check!) the night before, he was in better spirits and health.  
That didn't make the fact that he couldn't work at all any more pleasant for him though. He would twitch in his seat, staring at Isabelle, obviously deducing whatever he could off of her. Sometimes he'd even spout out a few of them, such as things about her co-workers and what she had for lunch (this was later in the day, mind) He'd also read. A-lot.  
It was amazing how much of a workaholic he was, he needed some sort of fix to keep his mind occupied. Isabelle liked work more than most people, for her it gave a sense of purpose. For Mycroft it was like breathing.

At any rate, the third day was the last one- Isabelle had promised. He could go back to whatever stuff he did in that all important building as long as he took it easy. After she'd said it, he'd given her a stare of pure distaste before turning back to his copy of… she wasn't even sure. It was written in _French._

* * *

Isabelle waited at the dining room table, fingers tapping an uneasy rhythm against the tabletop. He should have come down a half hour ago! She bit her bottom lip, staring at her bowl of stew (yes, it was stew this time she was sure of it!)  
He had been in his room practically all day, only coming down for meals and for an exchange of books. It sort of worried her, how mopey and unhappy he looked… All well, it would soon be over and she could get back to worrying about him _while he was at work _instead.  
She ran a hand tiredly over one eye. She'd had a hard day at her own job. Madelyn Ross had several meetings with big important people, which involved taking her "right hand" with her to take notes etc. Alongside that the computer had broken so Isabelle had to go to Bettina Hollister to use hers, and she really hated talking to Bettina F-ing Hollister! The woman was like a wall of indifference and expensive perfume. Isabelle knew she had good intentions at heart, and was pretty darn good at her job. But talking to her was like talking to tree!

So William Bent had come and fixed the computer, winking at Isabelle in a very conspicuous manner, and Isabelle was forced to re-download files that for some reason really didn't want to download and…ug!  
Overall she wasn't happy to come home only to prepare dinner for someone that wasn't going to show up!  
So, the young woman sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed at her friend's bowl of stew. She shoved it onto a tray as well as a cup of lukewarm tea.  
She walked carefully up the stairs so as not to drop her items, heading in the direction of Mycroft's bedroom.  
She stopped at the door looking down at the small wooden sign saying "_Mycroft Holmes- Knock before entry". _She wondered for whose benefit the sign was, considering he didn't get many visitors-i.e. No visitors. Maybe Sherlock's?  
She freed a hand and knocked a few times, waiting for some sort of response. When she got none, her brow furrowed in confusion.  
Tentatively she turned the doorknob and looked inside the room, swallowing nervously. She'd never once been in his room, and she wasn't sure how he'd feel about her seeing the inside.  
She didn't see anyone at first, and for a moment thought he'd managed to escape undetected! But her gaze finally landed on the person she'd been looking for.

Mycroft was splayed unceremoniously across a large incredibly comfortable looking bed, in his pajamas-feet bear of socks and shoes.  
Isabelle stood in the doorway a few aching moments until she saw an involuntary twitch of his fingers, his right hand dangling off the bed.  
"Mycroft?" she asked softly, hoping that he would not be upset by her presence inside his room. He grunted in response, not moving from his place.  
"A-are you feeling ok?" the young woman persisted.  
Nothing.  
Mustering up her courage, Isabelle stepped further into the room, absently taking in the surprisingly warm atmosphere.  
There was a cherry wood desk against one wall just beneath a window, well organized surface bathed in the light of a small lamp. The carpet was a pale white and with each step Isabelle took it felt like walking upon a cloud! There was an oblong gold trimmed mirror resting near the bed, as well as two wooden side tables (one on each side of course).  
A door was cracked open enough for Isabelle to see it led to a bathroom, and against the opposite wall was what she assumed to be a closet door-as well as a dresser next to it.  
There was a painting on the wall near the bed depicting a hummingbird mid-flight. It was gorgeous, and Isabelle thought she could probably look at it all day. But she had a job to do.

"I brought you up some stew," she said, edging over to the bed and setting the tray on the table on the right.  
He took in a long breath through his nose before he managed to straighten his long frame, looking up at her with blank gray eyes.  
"You didn't come down so I thought I'd bring it up to you, you know?" she smiled weakly at a figure which wasn't even looking at her.  
Isabelle tried not to stare at him, his hair tousled and his above his perfect ankles sticking out from beneath the fabric. "Please vacate," he said stiffly, pulling himself into a sitting position, back arched and legs crossed.  
Isabelle blinked at him, "What?" she asked, wondering why it surprised her. He wrinkled the base of his nose, "Should I make it easier for you to understand? Very well. Please, bug - off!"  
Isabelle's eyes widened at him, her mouth falling open. Had he just?! Her hands clenched into fists at her side, "Fine!"  
With that, she stormed out of the room.

She took in a calming breath. How dare he say that to her! She paced back and forth a few times, "Tell me to bug off will you," she mumbled to herself, "of all the stupid…"  
The man was an insufferable jerk!  
Without warning to herself, she turned around and found herself back in Mycroft's room.  
He was in the same position, staring into space.  
"I went through a lot of crap today Mycroft Holmes!" she shouted, arms stiff at her sides, "I don't need this!"  
He startled and turned his head to face her, "I-"  
Isabelle interrupted quickly, deciding to go with her ire, "I don't care if you're bored out of your mind, it's your own damn fault for not taking care of yourself! I mean, God, Mycroft how dare you tell me to bug off! I should tell you to bug off!"

He stared at her for minute before he spoke up after a clearing of his throat, "Apologies My Dear."  
His expression may have been blank, but his voice had taken up a sad quality which melted Isabelle's anger like butter.  
Her brow furrowed, "Apology accepted," she replied, her voice softened quite a bit. She moved over to the bed and sat on the very edge, sinking into what seemed to be three layers of blanket and a mattress made of what must have been what dreams were made of!  
He moved away from her a bit.  
"I take it neither you nor your brother take to boredom well," she said pointedly, though not really looking at him.  
"Not especially," he replied, still somewhat terse. Apparently being yelled at was enough to snap him out of whatever stupor he had gotten himself into, but he was still uncomfortable, "Usually, I handle it better than this," he added for good measure.  
Isabelle bit her bottom lip, "I don't really know what to do about that," she continued, raising an eyebrow at him.  
"I doubt there's anything you can do My Dear, I shall return to work tomorrow and everything will return to normal so there seems little point now," he said, shoving his legs off the bed and letting them hang there.

Isabelle felt guilty about yelling at him now. "I know but…is there anything I can do?" she found herself asking, "I don't want you to be bored, I'm supposed to be taking care of you remember?" she looked at him with earnest Hazel eyes. She touched his hand with the tips of her fingers, resisting the urge to pull him into a hug he would not reciprocate.  
There was a long pregnant pause before he spoke in a sort of rumble, "Have you ever played the board game…Operation?"

* * *

"Oh come on!"  
"Sorry My Dear, best cut your losses and give up now."  
"You wish!"

Isabelle was losing quite terribly at this game. This odd, childish game. She loved it nonetheless. Mycroft removed some comically named internal organ with ease, then smiled at her, "I'm afraid I win."  
She threw her hands up scoffing in disbelief, "How are so good at this game?!"  
Despite the rise over her voice, Isabelle was smiling openly at him. Her legs were folded beneath on Mycroft's bed, him sitting upon the opposite side.  
"The question you should be asking yourself My Dear, is why is it you are so terrible at it?" he replied. The young woman giggled, poking him in the ribs in retaliation. He smirked, "Resorting to violence now? How crude of you."  
Isabelle piled up all the pieces of the game and put them in their proper place then shoved them into the box. She'd basically lost nine out of the ten games played, and was not really excited to lose a tenth time for the sake of relieving her friend's boredom.

Mycroft pulled down his sleeves which had been perfectly folded up to his elbows so that they didn't hang in the way whilst he played.  
"Well, that was enjoyable," Isabelle said to break the silence, placing the Operation box on the left side table. He smiled almost crookedly at her, "Indeed."  
Isabelle found her rubbing at her tired eyes for the second time, forcing back a yawn. God she was tired, and sitting upon the bed made of the softest of clouds didn't help. She rested her back against the headboard, upper eyelids lowering about halfway.  
Mycroft was straightening his blankets to the best of his ability, lazily falling into a supine position.  
"You feel better?" Isabelle asked groggily, resting her hands on her knees.  
"Quite a bit, thank you My Dear," he said, Adams apple bobbing up as he spoke.

The two stared at nothing at all.

* * *

A warm body pressed against her and the sound of soft snoring made Isabelle's eyes finally open, her thin frame in a rather _interesting_ position. She looked down at the arm which had draped over her shoulders, and the man it belonged to facing the opposite direction-fast asleep.  
It took Isabelle a solid five minutes before her brain grasped just what was going on. She'd fallen asleep, as had Mycroft, and they were both in the same bed! Her eyes widened, "Oh lord," she yelped, whispering so as not to interrupt her companion.  
Her hands went up and gently grabbed the thin arm, shifting it over her head and onto a pillow not far from her head.  
She had obviously rolled in his direction rather than the other way around, no longer near the headboard.  
She couldn't help but relish his body heat, and the steady breathing, and the tender grip he had on her sleeve before she pulled herself to her feet, staggering away from the bed.  
He didn't stir, and Isabelle remembered him once commenting on his inability to wake from sleep easily. She ran a hand across her hair, something lodged in her throat. She dearly hoped he would wake up and think that she went to her own bed after he fell asleep!  
She bent over him and planted a soft kiss against his cheek before she pulled out of the room quickly.

Taking a calming breath, she made her way back to her own room.

* * *

**I wanted this chapter to be longer, but couldn't find enough filler heh-heh.  
Meh, I'm not exactly happy with this one, but I dunno you guys might like it more than me. ;)  
I wrote the following chapter "Before" I wrote this one because I was suddenly more inspired, so you get two at the same time! **

**"Parties and Panic attacks"**

**(I won't explain the plot considering there's no wait for it)**


	16. Chapter 15- Parties and Panic attacks

**Parties and Panic attacks-**

Lily shifted her position on the chair. She'd never played Operation, nor had she ever really heard of it. Lillian had always considered board games and such to be beneath her, or just uninteresting-so it wasn't something new.  
The fact that her parents could bond over something so mundane was… perplexing.  
The teenager shoved a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, turning the page to see a doodle of a smiley face, which meant she'd gotten over the sleeping in the same bed thing. Lily wondered whether her father had noticed.  
Her gray eyes took in the now cursive letters:

_I seem to spend the best moments of my life in the oddest places. Today, it was in a public bathroom….And no (whoever's reading this) it's not what you think. ;)_

* * *

"So, Mycroft I was uh, I was wondering if you'd uh…like to go to the office party at my building…maybe?"

Isabelle scoffed to herself, no, that wouldn't do. He certainly wouldn't want to go, and if she stumbled over her words he might think it an even more ridiculous endeavor. Then again, she might garner some sympathy.  
She paced outside his office door, fingers playing with her hair, finding the large lock of severed chestnut. It had already started growing back, she could tell but it felt off amidst the lengths surrounding her, the longest strands reaching down to her thighs.  
Shrugging this off, Isabelle reached out a pale hand and knocked three times against the door. There wasn't a sign that said "please knock" like his bedroom, but she considered it the best practice to do so.  
"Yes?"  
She took that as an invitation for her to enter. Isabelle opened the door and moved into the room, a certain coldness settling around her. She'd never really liked either of his offices; there was nothing personal about them. It put in the mind of being in an empty library, with nothing but the ghosts to keep her company.

"What is it Isabelle?" Mycroft asked, reading through a file.  
Now that he had gotten back to work, his spirits had greatly risen, though Isabelle had insisted that he spend more time at home so that she could ensure he ate three meals a day. It was working, about a week had passed, and while he still seemed a little bit…dazed and off his usual game- he'd obviously gained some weight and wasn't bored out of his skull.  
"I wanted to ask you something," the young woman said, shuffling into the room, trying not to imagine a ghost staring down at her with giant see through eyes.  
"I recommend you ask it then," he said, raising an eyebrow at her.  
Isabelle frowned, "I was wondering if you'd come with me to an office party, I kind of uh-promised Madelyn Ross you'd be there."  
"No."  
Isabelle's frown deepened. Of course he'd say no! Well, she wasn't about to give up that easily. "But Mrs. Ross would be so happy to see you-sort of. And besides, you owe me for putting up with you while you were sick!"  
The word sick was the loosest of terms.

Mycroft sighed, closing the file, "When exactly is this _office party_?"

Aha!

* * *

When Madelyn Ross had said "Office Party" Isabelle had assumed a small get together of co-workers in her sector of the building. What it turned out to be, was what seemed to be the whole building! Isabelle swallowed uneasily, tensing against the people all talking to each other at once. Mycroft had plastered on a soft pleasant smile which he shared with whomever looked in his direction.  
She admired his ability to handle such a large crowd.  
The room Isabelle knew to be in was the main area with a few cubicles and a water cooler in it. While she worked off in a less occupied area, this was where people like Bettina Hollister and Morrissa Lane worked.

Mrs. Ross spotted them and walked up, "Ah Isabelle nice of you to come by, and my goodness if it isn't Mr. Holmes," she greeted pleasantly, one dark skinned hand circled around a cup of juice. Mycroft nodded, "Hello Madelyn," he said politely, "how have you been?"  
"I can't complain," Mrs. Ross replied before turning her gaze to Isabelle, "There's a table with refreshments next to the water cooler dear, you don't have to stay long if it makes you uncomfortable," she smiled in that warm way of hers, dimples and all, "I just wanted you to come so I could introduce you to some 'higher ups'" she winked at Mycroft.  
The man in question didn't seem to be paying attention anymore, his gray eyed gaze darting from one person to another.  
Isabelle tried not to notice, "Thank you Mrs. Ross," she said, "I'll probably hang around for an hour or so."

Mrs. Ross left after that, having been waved over by one of her colleagues. Isabelle turned to Mycroft, "Refreshments?" she asked, gesturing towards the snack table.  
He didn't reply, merely nodded curtly and followed as Isabelle attempted to cut past the crowd. She stopped when a man bumped into Mycroft's arm, making him flinch and take in a sharp breath. Her attention was suddenly on the well dressed man. His breaths were shallow and uneven, every so often he'd stop and hold his breath before expelling it and going back to unevenness. His whole body was tense, but that mask of calm still sat on his face.  
He looked…not good.  
"Mycroft?"  
"Yes?" his voice shook.  
Isabelle didn't like the shakiness of that one word, and the fact that he was hyperventilating couldn't have been good! Without thinking she ushered him through the crowd, hand holding his like she was trying to keep him from falling. She could just barely feel the heat of his palm against hers, mingled with sweat.  
Out of impulse she pulled him into the ladies bathroom, depositing him near the sinks so she could check the stalls. Satisfied that they were alone, she turned her attention to her friend…And immediately wished that she hadn't.

Mycroft was taking quick shallow huffs of breath; his gray eyes looked watery as his gaze fixed upon the ugly tile floor. She could see the pale of his knuckles as he gripped the edge of the sink behind him.  
Isabelle decided that there was something categorically wrong with Mycroft being _vulnerable_. She recalled being angry that he wasn't a "sharer" as she put it in her head, but this… it felt wrong;, and she wasn't sure what to do with it. She'd only seen brief flickers of emotion from him, and they almost all had to do with her. Anger, sadness, and what she dearly hoped was at least some happiness. But this was fear... Isabelle supposed she understood fear; she had quite a few of them. A fear of abandonment, a fear of being disliked, and a fear of dogs. But Mycroft? The only fear she knew of was a fear of horses, and she wasn't even sure if that was true!  
Life would have been easier if on that day he had just said "Large crowds of strangers", and this might not have happened!

His pathetic attempts to collect himself from what must have been a Panic Attack, were futile, Isabelle could see that. He was growing frustrated with it, the way his brow furrowed angrily over his tear filled eyes and the way his lip curled upwards revealing perfect white teeth presented that quite clearly. He was aware that this was irrational and stupid, but he had absolutely no control over it.  
Isabelle walked to the door and locked it, then joined Mycroft by the sinks, leaning her slight weight against the cool white surfaces.  
"So…" she mumbled, long chestnut hair spilling over her shoulders. "Indeed," he breathed in reply, not looking up at her.  
Isabelle hummed softly, "I'm sorry I forced you t-to come here," she said, wondering if laying the blame on herself was for his benefit or for her own. Become _stupid, useless Isabelle_ again to lay the blame somewhere, maybe focus the attention on something less…wrong.  
God she wished she had more practice with dealing with these things; she'd never had the benefit of being the comforting friend. She was the person who stood awkwardly in the corner hoping someone else would come and make Jeanie stop crying!

"I am the one that must apologize My Dear, I hadn't intended to…well, the most succinct way of putting it is- I hadn't intended to lose my mind," he smiled weakly up at her, thin lips suddenly pressed together perhaps a little too tightly, "I'm afraid I've made you uncomfortable."  
"It's not your fault-"  
"Of course it is, if I had attempted to regain some semblance of control before I lost it completely, I would not be in the women's lavatory right now."

Isabelle couldn't help but giggle, smile lines showing clearly on her pale face. Mycroft took in a deep calming breath than switched his attention to the even uglier ceiling.  
"Can I ask…Is something that happens a lot?" Isabelle questioned him (hoping any signs of laughter were gone from her voice), wanting to keep him talking. Because his voice was thick and almost gravelly and she liked that, also it would keep his mind of emotions which were obviously roiling around inside of him.  
"Absolutely not," Mycroft replied whilst also shooting her a sour glance, "I rarely fall prey to such…weakness," he seemed to seethe at himself.  
Isabelle was increasingly aware that he was forcing the "Weakness" away and putting up his defenses, and while she was very uncomfortable with a crying Mycroft (Seriously _crying_!) she also knew that it wasn't healthy to bottle anything up.

"I-t's ok, seriously," she lied, kicking one foot out. He shot her a disbelieving look because of it. "Ok, maybe it isn't, but it's still ok for you to be weak-not that it really um… is weakness," she rambled.  
"Agree to disagree My Dear, though I appreciate the sentiment," Mycroft replied, swallowing thickly.  
The two sat in silence for a while, Isabelle noting that this was the type of silence she enjoyed. Not angry, not awkward, just right. The soft silence that blocked the world away from the two of them.  
Suddenly, the Holmes began to speak in barely a whisper, "I had, suffered a few moments such as this one when I was younger. I kept it a secret of course, why burden my family with something I could handle on my own? I forced myself to learn to cope and I did. I imagine this happened due to my previous illness, the grip lost on my previously exceptional mental faculties," he gave her a wry smile. Isabelle returned the smile; heart fluttering at the small glimpse into the world of a younger Mycroft… it wasn't much different from the older apparently. Keeping his troubles bottled up and out of the line of sight of everyone else.  
She could relate to a small degree.

"What were they?" Isabelle inquired.  
"I'm going to assume you mean the coping strategies," he said, raising an eyebrow at her, "Simple things, deep breaths, finding something else to occupy my mind such as deductions," he shrugged, rumpling the shoulders of his suit.  
Isabelle recognized those, simple was right, but effective. She never had any sort of social anxiety (not exactly) but those things kept her from crying, especially when in the company of others.  
"Yeah?" she replied, switching her weight to a different leg. She was already growing uncomfortable in the position she was in. But she wanted to be beside Mycroft, or in front of him, either worked. She fought the urge to grab his hand and squeeze it, not sure if that was an appropriate thing to do at the moment.  
"It seems I've found a new one though," Mycroft said suddenly, turned to face her completely, his expression gone soft. Isabelle could see his eyelashes were wet with tears, "If you hadn't acted quickly I might have lost every semblance of… Thank you."  
Isabelle bit her bottom lip, Hazel eyes meeting dull gray. She felt as though something was flip-flopping in her stomach. God, he was being earnest again!

With what seemed like no warning, he leaned inwards and pressed his lips to her cheek, his hands moved forwards with him, fingers barely ghosting down her sides, running from her ribs to her hips. Isabelle was glad she wasn't very ticklish, because that would have totally ruined the moment! She was quick to move her mouth to his; giving him a few quick kisses against his jawline first. She could feel his tongue moving ever so slightly into her mouth, touching her teeth. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, body pressing against his. He was soft and warm, even through all the layers.

Of course it didn't last, because this was Mycroft.

He pulled away and took in a long hard breath of air, absently straightening his tie which had gone -_not even sort of_\- askew.  
"Well," he said, a smile playing with the corners of his mouth-but just barely. Isabelle nodded, "Indeed," she said in mock of what he had said earlier.  
The last time she'd kissed him had been at the hospital, and she'd thought he'd just shrugged it off as idiotic and an act of relief rather than meaning anything real. And in truth, it might not have. But that didn't matter because Mycroft had been kissing her back this time!  
She shoved a large portion of her hair behind her shoulder, "Does this mean that we're dating again?" she asked without thought.  
He raised an eyebrow at her, "_That_ has always been your decision."  
She supposed this was true. And in a way it heartened her, because he was still willing to be with her! It had never been off the table for him.  
She swallowed thickly, appearing to think very deeply on the matter, "Mm, I don't know," she said almost dramatically, "who'd want to be tied up with _you_?"  
He raised an eyebrow, smiling at her, "Alright, I've changed my mind," came the reply, "I think I'd rather go out with Bennita Hollister."  
He seemed to dismiss her with a wave of the hand. Isabelle wrinkled her nose, "Oh yuck," she replied, sticking out her tongue in disgust.

He couldn't hide a huff of laughter, while Isabelle let out an entirely unladylike chortle. She wasn't sure if she was laughing at the idea of Mycroft going out with Bennita Hollister (the snottiest most self-absorbed of Isabelle's colleagues) or the idea of _Isabelle_ being _worse_ than Bennita Hollister! Which absently made the young woman feel rather wonderful actually. Isabelle was very used to feeling like the dirt beneath everyone else's boot (or in the case of Bennita, high heeled shoe). The idea that she was better than her (whilst being rather horrible and conceded to even think about) felt great. She supposed the funniest bit was picturing Mycroft trying to have a conversation with that woman! That would be fun to watch.  
"All joking aside My Dear, I would love to christen you as my Girlfriend once again," Mycroft said, being stinking earnest again, "My underlings were very upset when we broke it off you know," he looked at his fingernails.  
He'd told his underlings about her? Um, maybe that wasn't what she should have been harping on.

"I would love it too!"

"Oh God, we're in a loo. I just got back together with you in the ladies bathroom!" Isabelle yelped suddenly. Mycroft hummed to himself, "Doesn't bode well, does it?" he joked, running a hand down his sleeve to smooth nonexistent wrinkles in the fabric.  
The two smiled at each other. Mycroft was a little more subdued than Isabelle's of course, she had a big grin that felt like it stretched the length of her face.  
"Well, shall we return to society?" he questioned, gesturing vaguely to the bathroom door. Isabelle ran a hand across the skirt of her dress, "Oh yeah, right," she cleared her throat, "D-do you think you'll be ok?"  
He gave her a withering look before he sighed, "I'm perfectly alright," he said stiffly, regaining all composure as quickly as flipping a switch.  
"Right," the young woman said, stepping forwards and unlocking the door. She opened it a crack and checked the outside, ensuring that no one would see Mycroft exit the ladies lavatory. People were there, but no one was looking, so she waved him over.  
The two exited with looks of dignity resting on their faces, completely opposite of how it had been only moments before. People were still chattering incessantly at each other all at the same time, which succeeded in giving her a headache. She could understand why this stressed Mycroft out as much as it did!

Isabelle suddenly became aware of a hand in hers, Mycroft's hand, holding onto her like a lifeline. He didn't appear stressed in the slightest as they made their way through the swamp… perhaps now, she was one of his ways of coping.

* * *

**Again, not really sure if I'm happy with this.  
If anyone has any ideas for this Fanfic, I would gladly read them and (most likely) use them! I have a bunch of ideas still to come, but I've sort of petered out near the end after the two are married (I really don't think that's a spoiler lol)**

**Please Review!**

**"A frightening encounter"**

**Isabelle goes shopping and comes across a strange man who says his name is "Daniel", and she enjoys his company until suddenly…he's kind of scary. (No, Daniel is not an OC, I promise!)**


	17. Chapter 16- A frightening encounter

**A frightening encounter-**

"Lillian come to the table, dinner is ready."

Lily looked up from her reading to see her father standing in the doorway, looking down at her. She quickly tucked the diary against her side so it remained out of sight then smiled falsely up at him, "K daddy, I'll come in a sec-"  
"You will come now," he ordered, "Your brother and I will not wait for you."  
"But I'm busy!" the young girl snarled, defiantly staring up at her father. Couldn't he wait five minutes? No of course not, because meal time was on a stupid schedule!  
"Would you rather go without?" he asked, crossing his arms in front of him.  
Before she could think better of it, Lillian replied, "Whatever, just leave me alone!"

Her father let out a soft yet long suffering sigh before he turned and left. Lily ran a hand through her long blonde hair, wishing that she hadn't said that because she knew she'd get hungry later. The diary was pulled from its hiding place and placed squarely on her lap. Why did this matter as much as it did anyways?  
She supposed it was entertainment. Something to occupy her mind with, and more interesting than doing things that Alistair or her father wanted her to do.  
With a soft huff of breath she pulled the book open again, and began to read.

* * *

Isabelle rather enjoyed shopping. Not clothes shopping-clothes shopping sucked. No, she enjoyed buying food and every day supplies.  
It was calm and usually empty, and pleasantly cold when she was in the freezer section. She could smell all sorts of fruit and pick through the best of everything.  
Not that she usually bought anything beyond microwavable meals, new hair-ties and far too many bottles of shampoo and conditioner for any normal person. (When you have hair as long as hers, you begin to appreciate a good bottle of conditioner!)

Mycroft apparently did all the shopping-which made sense- and was also rather adorable to imagine. A well-dressed, cold, calculating man… pushing around a shopping cart in the frozen foods section.  
As Isabelle did the same, she found herself smiling.  
Her fingers wrapped around the plastic coated bar of the cart, absentmindedly humming to herself happily. It had been a good day. She'd spent a good amount of time working for Mrs. Ross when the woman herself had come down and declared that Isabelle was no longer on a probation period-three days before the period was actually supposed to end.  
She returned home later to Mycroft sitting at the dining room table with his laptop. She'd bowled him into another hug that probably knocked all the air out of him, and he'd given her a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.  
And then he'd suddenly spouted something about making Cheesecake for their next lesson, and Isabelle had totally wanted to do that.

So there she was, shopping for Cheesecake ingredients.

She'd never tried baking a cake in her life, not even from a box. And certainly not something that sounded as complicated as Cheesecake. But she wanted to try, perhaps because her ego had taken a huge boosting. God she loved her job! It suddenly felt like breathing to her. She'd only been working half a month but… she understood.  
Isabelle turned a corner and nearly rammed into another shopper, a rather young man with nothing in his cart except a torn package of nappies. She jerked to a halt in front of him, "Sorry," she apologized quickly, despite not having actually hit him.  
"No, totally my fault!" he replied hastily, running a hand across his loose black hair. Isabelle smiled politely and adjusted her cart so that he might pass her, "W-well whoever's fault it is, I-I'm sorry anyhow," she stammered, trying not to blush red. She was never really shy, but suddenly interacting with a new person felt disconcerting.  
He returned her smile with his own crooked one, "Alright."

She waited for him to move… but he didn't. Rather he looked at her with dark brown eyes, brow lowering, "A-are you Isabelle Long?"  
Isabelle blinked, "Uh, yeah," she said slowly, "h-have we met?"  
He shook his head hastily, "No sweetie, I've only heard of you," he rested his forearms against his cart, "in storybooks and songs," he added, his voice taken up a singsong quality.  
It took her a moment to grasp what he must have meant, "Do you work with Mycroft?"  
The dark haired man nodded, "I'm sure if you were to ask him, he'd say I was working _against _rather than _for_," he winked.  
Isabelle laughed, feeling much more comfortable with the situation. She reached out one hand to shake his across the expanse of wire mesh and wheels, "It's a pleasure to meet you-?" her voice trailed off. "Daniel, Daniel Pierce," he said, filling in the blank.  
They shook hands, and then pulled back into comfortable silence. Isabelle wasn't sure where to go from there, should she try to strike up a conversation? Or let merely meeting him be enough and get back on her search for raspberries to put on top of their coming creation?  
Daniel seemed to notice her inner battle because he flashed an incredibly sweet smile, "Which way are you headed sweetheart? I'll follow," he winked again.

And suddenly they were looking at plastic containers of raspberries together.

Daniel stood rather close, every so often his shoulder bumping against hers. It struck Isabelle how much shorter than her he was, but then again, was that anything new? She tended to tower over people, one thing she enjoyed about Mycroft-they nearly matched in height.  
Unconsciously she tightened her grip around one of the cases as Daniel once again brushed against her, reaching across to a thing of strawberries. She swallowed, he was married… or at least, he had a child (If the nappies were anything to go by). She had no reason to feel this uncomfortable!  
"So, how did you recognize me? Did Mycroft describe me?" she inquired, hoping to break the sudden silence which had grown between them.  
The man bit his bottom lip for a moment then looked up at her with incredibly dark eyes, "I could say that, but it'd be a lie," he said somberly, "No, I took a guess and ran with it."

Ok. That was confusing. Isabelle ran a hand across her braid then took the top container of raspberries and shoved it into her cart, "That's a good guess you just made," she mumbled, pressing her palms against the handle.  
He moved towards her cart and leaned against it, halting her attempt at rolling forwards, "Not really," he replied blandly.  
Isabelle found herself searching the isle for someone- _anyone_ else, but the row was completely empty. Daniel had on that crooked grin again only this time it had more of a threatening quality to it, "Did you know, that people are more likely to trust you if they believe you have a baby?" he inquired out of the blue, flickering his gaze to his cart then back to her, "As if having coitus is a reason for anyone to be trusted."  
Isabelle swallowed, "I didn't-"  
He moved forwards, circling her wrist with his pale hand, fingers pressing hard against her skin. Isabelle suddenly felt her heartrate speed up.  
"Besides that, nothing beats a cute smile," he flashed her one for good measure. His gaze roved up and down her, "My, my, you're such a plain thing. Dull, boring, what _does_ he see in you?" he questioned, sniffing disdainfully.  
"I-I-I don't know, please stop touching me!" she said breathlessly, attempting a step back. It didn't work because he moved forwards with her, "Maybe… maybe you're a good kisser? Are you a good kisser sweetheart?"  
"What are you doing… Daniel?" she took in a sharp breath when his other hand ran up her side. She was about to cry out when he suddenly pressed his lips to her in a short kiss.  
Isabelle stared, breathing a terrible rhythm, _in out, in, in, out, in._  
"Meh," was the first thing he said with a crinkle of his nose, "Alright sweetie, that's all I wanted. I just needed to know," he winked for the third time that day, rolling on the balls of his feet, "Personally I don't know what he sees in you, but that's beside the point. The point is: he has a girlfriend. I just _had_ to see you in person."

And he walked away.

If Isabelle were of right mind, she would have called out. She would have maybe gone to prove what had happened by talking to the manager and getting the security tapes. She wasn't. She was scared. She'd just been kissed by a stranger. A short, dark haired, dark soulless eyed, stranger with plaid button up shirt and jeans that were too big for him. Her throat closed as disgust filled her, and more fear because this man was completely nonchalant about the whole thing.  
She watched him saunter away with expensive looking dress shoes that didn't fit the rest of what he was wearing at all.  
She blinked and looked at her hands, forcing herself to swallow the bile which rose. She should have decked him; she should have smacked right in the jaw and sent him to the ground! But, she didn't. And even then she knew that she couldn't.

What did it matter anyways? It was just a peck on the lips and a little touching that wouldn't be deemed inappropriate in any other setting!  
God. Did this man really work for Mycroft? Or was he some freak show that hung around stores and pretended to recognize names?... Ok, that last part didn't make any sense. He had addressed her as Isabelle Long from the start.  
She bit hard on her bottom lip hard, hard enough for the pink flesh to sting when she touched it with her tongue later.  
She needed to let it go, move on!

So she finished her shopping and returned home.

Mycroft was in the kitchen, mixing bowls set out alongside the required utensils in front of him- a kind smile plastered on his face. She wondered if he would be able to tell what had happened with one look if he hadn't made that promise a year ago. She shoved the grocery bags onto one of the pristine counter tops, and he began to hurriedly unload them, putting the everyday foods in their places in the refrigerator.  
Then he removed his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt just up to his elbow.  
Isabelle swallowed thickly, drawing his attention, "Are you feeling quite well My Dear?" he inquired, placing one hand on his narrow hip.  
"Yeah," she said quickly, turning her gaze to one of the mixing bowls. He raised an eyebrow but didn't question further.  
After a moment of awkward silence Isabelle spoke up, "Mycroft?"  
"Yes?" he asked, decidedly not looking up at her as he poured something or other into a cup measure.

She contemplated telling him of her weird and slightly terrifying encounter, but stopped herself. How would he react? Would he become angry? Or shrug it off as another idiotic problem? She trusted him to spare her feelings but… she couldn't know. She could see him looking at her through his peripheral vision, realizing that she was clearly shaken up by something, but unable to detect what it was without delving further. No, she couldn't. She couldn't tell him.

"Nothing… never mind."

* * *

**Short weird chapter. I kind of did this more for fun rather than progressing the story anywhere. (Not that writing progressive parts aren't fun!)  
I'm sure you know Daniel is, but if you're not sure…any guesses? Lol  
The next one is ****_far less_**** out of the blue:**

**"Heavy"**

**In which Isabelle and Mycroft have a deep conversation, and… stuff happens. (It's mostly talking, but important things happens I swear! Lol)  
****I'll probably have the next chapter ready by tomorrow, if not, maybe the day after. I'm excited to write it!**

**Thanks so much for the Reviews!**


	18. Chapter 17- Heavy

**Heavy-**

Lillian felt some bile rise in her throat, having read the last two sentences three times over.

_I didn't tell him. I couldn't tell him. _

Was she an idiot?! Undoubtedly. But that was beside the point. If her mother had any mind at all she would have informed someone about this, even stinkin' Bastian Kirk would have been acceptable! Pressing her lips together Lily forced herself to remember that this was something that had happened over fourteen years ago, and obviously it had not led to anything terrible later on.  
Lily curled her legs up to her chest, already feeling hunger pangs. She decided that later she would steal something from the refrigerator later- facing the consequences was for losers.  
She bit her bottom lip, flipping through a few pages which just had poorly done sketches of things that took Isabelle's fancy: A dog with a foaming mouth and sharp teeth directly next to a happy smiling sunflower. A chocolate bar with skull and crossbones on it, a poor etching of one of her father's suits, and a giant heart with an arrow running through it. Stuff like that.  
Eventually Lillian struck words again, in cramped writing.

_Dear Diary, I'm not sure if I should laugh, or cry, or both. I just confessed to my "boyfriend" (still can't believe that I can call him that again!) that I loved him! -  
_

* * *

It was breakfast once again.

Isabelle sat silently waiting for Mycroft to pour out his bowl of Raisin Bran, before she would dig into her eggs and sausages (alongside her customary cup of orange juice). Her fingernails made a soft click sound against the surface of the table as she watched him. Mycroft shot her a questioning glance before he poured in the milk and began spooning out a decent portion of the stuff.  
"I still don't know how you can eat that, there's practically no flavor," Isabelle said, slicing through the white of her egg with the side of her fork. He snorted softly, but didn't comment as he moved the end of the spoon into his mouth.  
Isabelle smiled crookedly before she followed his lead with her own breakfast. She didn't know how he managed to make eggs taste like heaven, but he did. The Sausages had been Isabelle's job, and while it only required frying them-they still didn't taste right. There was a short pause where the only sound was chewing and the shuffling of dinner ware against itself. Then Mycroft let out a nearly imperceptible sigh, and let the handle of his spoon rest against the side of his bowl. His long fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin, and he looked at her searchingly.  
Isabelle tried not to be weirded out by this as she began chewing on a piece of sausage.

"Do you find me attractive?"

And suddenly the sausage had made its way into her windpipe! Isabelle coughed wildly, desperately trying to get the meat out of her trachea. Mycroft all the while had a Cheshire grin, obviously pleased that he had derailed her so easily.  
When she was finally able to breathe, Isabelle gave him an incredulous look, "What?" she choked, moving her plate out of the way-she really wasn't hungry anymore.  
He was still grinning, "It's a simple question My Dear, and whether you choose to answer truthfully makes no difference to me_. Do you find me attractive_?"  
Isabelle swallowed without reason, "God, of course I do! What, do you really think I'm in this for your personality?" she joked, able to form a sly grin while also absentmindedly rubbing her long neck with one hand.  
He let out a huff of laughter at that, removing his fingers from beneath his chin and leaning back into the chair. She could see that he'd crossed his legs at the ankles, always harkening her back to their first meeting.  
Isabelle wasn't sure what spurred the question, but she felt she should probably answer it seriously too, "I mean, y-yes…I really do Mycroft." she tried to inject all her earnestness into it that she could. He had certain…elegance about him-she'd noticed that upon their first meeting too. With his long perfect fingers, long nose, tall slim body and piercing stormy gray eyes… He was what most would describe as unconventionally handsome. Not what you would think about first when you thought of the word but still fit under the description wonderfully.

"Alright," he responded, the tips of his ears noticeably red, "Say I was to put on… one hundred pounds-give or take. Would you still find me attractive?" he raised an eyebrow at her, the corners of his mouth turned up in a near smirk.  
Isabelle wondered if he was joking, or maybe he was trying to test her (with Mycroft, anything was possible). Whatever it was, she was going to take it seriously. Isabelle found herself putting considerable thought into her response, "I don't think I would, a-at least, not as much as I do now," she said slowly, "but I doubt that would change anything," she added with a shrug.  
"Oh?"  
She scoffed, "Of course it wouldn't! I mean, yeah. Not ugly, just… not what I like about you now. But, seriously I'm in this for the personality more! Weird, annoying and insensitive as you may be I still love you."

Silence.

Isabelle clapped on hand to her mouth and squeaked, did she just tell him that she loved him?! That all too familiar voice was in her head, desperately screaming **ABORT! ABORT! **at her-but it was too late to take back. Sure saying that you love someone was common practice for couples that had been together as long as they had- but Mycroft was different… It was hard to explain. Besides that, it meant more to Isabelle. She'd never really felt anything like this before, not even with her previous boyfriends who'd she'd basically assumed felt for her.  
Her first boyfriend had been very open with his love declarations-and they'd only lasted like a month and a half. Her second hadn't said it all. And her third, Isabelle had said it first. And then he'd left her without any thought not long after.  
"Not that I uh, actually uh, love you of course I mean, I do kinda uh… I don't _love_ _you_ love you! You know, I'm just going to be quiet now!" her palm pressed against her lips.

Throughout this inner battle Mycroft had just stared. No expression, no blinking, nothing. After Isabelle's rambling he finally let out a small exclamation, "Mmhm."  
Well then.  
Isabelle removed her hand from her mouth and ran it across her air in agitation, massaging her way through minor tangles, "I don't know where to go from her, could you uh…say real words please?" she looked at him with sad hazel eyes, brow furrowed. Was she going to cry? She didn't know. Ug, she hoped not. She hadn't cried in a while, and it felt liberating not to feel like as much of a weakling anymore because of it.  
"I'm… flattered?" his brow furrowed as he attempted to form some sort of appropriate sentence to fit; "Are you positive that love is the correct word to be using in this instance?" he let out another huff of air.  
Isabelle felt too subdued to make another joke, "Yes, I'm sure," she said stiffly, staring at her hands. Slightly bothered that he'd asked that question in the first place. What, did he think that she just spouted this stuff whenever the mood arose? They'd known each other for nearly two years!

Mycroft leaned forwards and rested his arm against the edge of the table, the other hand shoving his bowl of completely soggy Raisin Bran aside, "Isabelle, something like this is not supposed to be construed as a bad thing. Truly, I do not find your…declaration- anything but well meaning," he said, clearly out of his element. His long perfect pale fingers stretched out against the wood surface with his usual light touch.  
Isabelle couldn't help but snort, "Of course it was well meaning. That's not. I-I just don't know what I'm doing. Ok, _I love you_. There I said it again!" she threw her hands up exasperatedly, "The thing is that I don't know how _you _feel about _me_. I don't need you to say that you _love me_, but you're just so hard to read sometimes," she finally allowed a tight smile. She wished hadn't made this about _him_, but knew it was her only means of escape.  
Mycroft made a soft hum in the back of his throat, "You would prefer I say it outright?"  
"Yes a-and no," Isabelle said slowly, "I understand that you uh _care_ about me, I just don't know if you would ever… would ever want to marry me someday o-or anything like that, you know?" she wished she would stop talking, maybe he'd forget her and walk away! Or at least, have a way of properly articulating what she really meant.

Mycroft ran a hand over one side of his face tiredly, "At this point in time I really have no idea My Dear. But," he paused for a moment, considering his words carefully, "if it helps- I find you rather… aesthetically pleasing and our personalities oddly compatible. In short, I enjoy your presence and it has not once crossed my mind that I would ever want to terminate our relationship."  
He said it all so casually Isabelle might have mistaken it for a sort of brush off of her feelings, but at the same time it sounded so sincere, "I know," she said softly.  
She reached forwards and touched her fingers across his knuckles in what she hoped was a fond gesture. His fingers curled beneath his palm in response.

"Aesthetically pleasing?" Isabelle asked suddenly and without thought. Not sure why she chose that particular comment to harp on. Perhaps that was another thing they had in common, they both suffered from a low self-esteem when it came to their appearances- though you had to squint to really see Mycroft being vulnerable like that.  
She could see a faint reddening of his cheeks, but he didn't seem to want to argue the use of those words.  
Isabelle found it hard to think of herself as beautiful in any way, with siblings that put her down every time she even tried to do something with her hair or clothes. She was too skinny, shapeless, with too much forehead and too small a nose. She had dull eyes, thin lips, and bony wrists, elbows, and knobby knees.  
Most people were against being too heavy, but Isabelle wished she could put on a few pounds! The few people she interacted with always seem to envy how skinny she was. But in reality, it was hard to put up with comments about it. If she was so skinny…why was she so ugly?

Swallowing thickly, Isabelle found gaze downcast once again. Mycroft pursed his lips, deliberating on what to say next. Neither was really sure where this conversation would go.  
"I'm afraid I couldn't find any other way of putting it," he finally said, smirking at her from across the table. She could tell he wanted to pull his hand away from hers, touching him was ok but it had lasted too long. Isabelle found her fingers stretching to his wrist and circling it, feeling the bony curve that rested underneath his skin.  
He let out a slow breath through his nose, rather like a sigh-but not. Isabelle mimicked him, eyes narrowing.  
"I can't believe it took us two years to say we found each other attractive," the young woman said, biting her bottom lip as she smiled, "I don't think that's normal."  
Mycroft hummed in response, "Nor do I, but when have we ever been considered normal?"  
What else could be said? As Isabelle smiled wryly as she probed his wrist with her fingertips. At the same time she thought she could feel the toe of his shoe pressing against her foot. Interesting.

"So… Should we be, kissing or hugging something along those lines after having made this revelation?" Mycroft questioned, sliding the side of his foot against the side of hers. Isabelle couldn't help but laugh, because only Mycroft would ask that question! "If you want to, I'm all for it," she replied, very much glad that they were back to this sort of thing. Ever since that day in the ladies bathroom, Mycroft had found himself a little more comfortable with touch. He still would shy away from anything beyond the occasional holding of hands, or peck on the lips. But really, that's all Isabelle needed.  
He cleared his throat in a matter of fact way before he leaned forwards and the two connected lips. Isabelle tilted her head quickly, allowing his pale hand to come up and cradle her right jaw. She let out a slow, hot, breath through her nose as she sighed in satisfaction. After all the wrong things in her life, this felt perfect!  
Mycroft pulled away first (As usual) and he cleared his throat again, "Very good, I must be off," and with that he stood up, scooping the bowl of raisin-y mush with one hand, suddenly dismissive of the whole conversation having happened.  
Isabelle found herself standing with him, taking her plate of half eaten eggs and sausages with her.  
Mycroft drained the milk into the sink then scraped the wheat paste into the trash, rinsing and then setting aside the bowl- Isabelle following his lead (i.e. dumping the whole thing in the trash) before she found herself leaning against one of the counters.

Mycroft was about to leave the room when he suddenly stopped, stood still for what seemed like forever, and then turned, "There is no misinterpretation that we are a couple is there?"  
Isabelle blinked at him, "Um, no," she replied, her brow furrowed in confusion. Mycroft continued regardless of her questioning gaze, "And thus, it would not be inappropriate to do things that most couples do?"  
Isabelle's confusion grew, "Uh, no. Are you going to explain what on earth you're talking about?"  
He wrinkled the base of his nose, "What I am getting at is, that if I were to suggest an action that is deemed rather important for a couple to do, would you mind?  
"I wouldn't, come on what's the question!" Isabelle pressed, forcing herself not to flail her arms in exasperation. Though also wondered whether he knew how suggestive that last sentence was.

"Would you like to meet my parents?"

And suddenly she was choking again!

* * *

**You can tell that I've been reading books by Rainbow Rowell, because I've gotten a little more physical with these characters. (It will not ever, no NEVER, devolve into smut I promise!)**

**I tried to flesh this one out, I really did. But it ended up being so short! I'm sure the next one won't be terribly long either. Bleh. All well, tell me what you think!**

**"Meeting Mummy Holmes"-**

**In which we switch to Mycroft's perspective! We meet the Holmes parents (I really hope I can write them correctly with what little I've seen of them) and Isabelle gets to see inside the ol' family album-much to Mycroft's consternation. ;)**


	19. Chapter 18- Meeting Mummy Holmes

**Meeting Mummy Holmes-**

Huh, so Grandmum and Grandad were coming into the story? Interesting. Lillian was quite fond of her grandparents, if not surprised by their apparent normalcy. She ran her thumb down the side of the page, careful not to cut herself on the parchment.  
Her lip went between her teeth as she considered the option of going for food, or reading another entry of her mother's diary. Both seemed equally interesting to her. Thus she turned the page of the book, and began reading and walking on her way to the kitchen.  
After smacking into way more obstacles than necessary, Lily halted her progress and looked around her. It wasn't dark quite yet outside the window, but the sky had gone a deep orange because of the setting sun. She moved into the pristine part of the house, searching the refrigerator for a snack. She pulled free what was clearly a well wrapped meal intended for her to have eaten it for dinner. She unwrapped it, heated it up in the microwave, and then sat at the table. She picked at it with a fork she'd procured as she opened her mother's diary to the page she had left off on and began to eat and read at the same time (only sometimes missing her mouth with the fork) unaware that a figure was standing in the doorway.

* * *

He could tell Isabelle was nervous beside him. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, the anxious twitch of her leg, and the slight hitch in her usually level breathing.  
Mycroft couldn't exactly blame her for being nervous, considering the circumstances. She was going to meet his parents. That in itself created a ball of anxiety that rose within him just as it did her- though his was for a different reason.  
He curled his fingers around the handle of his Umbrella, feeling the smooth curve against his palm. Were he feeling less uncomfortable, he might have extended his reach to Isabelle's hand, but the urge was not strong enough to risk it.

"Shouldn't be much longer Mr. 'olmes," Bastian Kirk explained from the front seat, adjusting the rearview mirror with his left hand.  
"Very good Bastian," Mycroft replied smoothly, fighting back the urge to say something sarcastic and biting, because he obviously knew how close to the place _he grew up in_ they were.  
Isabelle shifted in her seat beside him, running her hands over her thick braid several times and letting out a slow breath.  
Mycroft tensed his shoulders when her voice broke through the silence, "D-do you think they'll like me?"  
He fought the temptation to say something cutting, though in this case it would have been placed facing the opposite direction: Of course they would like her- they would adore her!  
"I assure you My Dear, they will," he explained, turning his gray eyes upon the passing outdoors.  
"Good," she said with a slight huff of laughter, and he couldn't help but echo her.

Not much later Bastian pulled the car into the driveway, and the couple stepped free of it. Mycroft hooked his Umbrella on his arm, "After you My Dear," he said smoothly, gesturing to the somewhat small building.  
Isabelle smiled faintly, "Oh no, we're going at the same time-come on," she reached out with one thin hand and grasped his, sending tingles up his arm. She half dragged him over to the front door and waited beside him for him to ring the doorbell.  
Mycroft took in a calming breath before his free hand went out and tapped the small button three times exactly. He was aware of the smile which spread across Isabelle's face at the pattern. It was some sort of compulsion he'd gathered when he was a child, knocking three times upon his parent's door before he would enter.  
There was the distinct chattering of his mother speaking to his father from behind the door before Linda Holmes came into view. A smile spread across her face when she saw him- and Isabelle beside him. "Hello dear," she greeted, pulling him into an unwanted but easily given hug.  
She moved on to Isabelle who was forced to release her hold on Mycroft's hand to shake Linda's, "And you must be Isabelle!"  
"Y-yeah uh, hi," Isabelle stammered.

The two were allowed to enter, revealing the comfortable interior of the building. The familiar smells and sights set Mycroft at sudden ease. This was one of the places he was most contented. And with Isabelle beside him, commenting about how lovely his previous 'place of residence' was-it made quite a bit nicer.  
"Thank you dear," Mrs. Holmes said in reply to Isabelle's praise, "I found it so much easier to keep the house clean after Sherlock moved out," she chuckled.  
"Myc could have stayed, he _liked_ cleaning up," Mr. Holmes came in from the kitchen, an ever-present smile upon his face.  
"Yes, and after I started, I rather suddenly became the only one doing it," Mycroft replied, wrinkling the base of his nose at his father, though his tone had a playful edge to it. _Myc-roft_! His mind rebelled.  
Isabelle seemed to be watching this with rapt attention, hazel eyes wide with wonderment at her boyfriend having a regular conversation with another human being.  
Mr. Holmes shook hands with Isabelle before falling in place beside his wife, who gestured for everyone to sit down-to which they of course complied.

Mycroft let his Umbrella lean against the sofa, back straight and face devoid of any outward emotion. Isabelle rested beside him, hands folded on her lap.  
"So Isabelle, what do you do?" Linda Holmes inquired, resting with one hand curled around her husband's.  
"I'm a-a secretary," Isabelle supplied, "for Madelyn Ross if that name means a thing to you…" she cleared her throat uncomfortably.  
"Madelyn claims that she is _up for promotion_," Mycroft added in hopes of continuing that thread of conversation.  
Isabelle grinned, "She says I'll be a Private Assistant, it won't change much except I'll be attending more meetings with her and stuff like that. I-I can't believe how far I've come, it's so great to work somewhere where I can actually advance," she shrugged, still smiling widely. Mycroft was glad that she had finally learned to leave out the self-deprecating comment that usually accompanied her when she spoke of her occupation. She would go on about how much she enjoyed it, and then explain all the things she messed up with certain vehemence as if she was trying to prove that she wasn't good enough for the fit she'd earned from the start.  
Mrs. Holmes nodded, "Nice to see someone take pride in their work," she replied.  
"It's so rare to see anyone take interest in what they're doing. Oh, you should have seen Linda back oh… must have been twenty odd years ago," Christopher Holmes said, his eyes widening at the realization that all that time had gone by, "she would come home and try to explain to me every little thing she did, of course I couldn't understand a word of it!" he chuckled.  
Mycroft let out a huff of air through his nose in some failed attempt at laughter, while Isabelle let out her usual overzealous 'chortle' though this time it was a little more subdued.  
Linda gave her husband a playful shove in the shoulder, "I could always tell when you weren't listening, I'd throw a curveball in the conversation, and you'd always reply 'yes of course' or 'how interesting'"

Isabelle grinned, "I'm sort of like that when Mycroft tries to talk to me about his work… I understand to an extent but uh," she swiped a flat hand over her head. She was seemingly at ease with the conversation which was good because her constant stammering might have made things awkward after a stretch of time.  
Mycroft couldn't help but snort and give a scathing look to no one in particular, "I am of course used to the befuddled looks given by the common masses," he commented, twisting his fingers around his Umbrella. Isabelle frowned, "So I'm lumped in with the common masses am I?" she asked, her voice taking a whispery quality, "…And what do you mean _common masses_?!" she wrinkled her petit nose, brow furrowed at him.  
"You needn't take offence my dear I merely meant that the I commonly received blank stares from the goldfish-"  
"Mycroft!" Mrs. Holmes snapped.  
He stopped, mouth closing quickly with a click of teeth.  
Isabelle let out a slow breath through her mouth, blowing a loose strand of long hair away from her face in what he hoped wasn't exasperation.  
Chris looked between the two, smiling pleasantly. He cleared his throat in an unobtrusive manner, "So Isabelle, is there anything you'd like to do while you're here?"

* * *

"And this is Myc holding Sherlock for the first time."  
"AWwwhaaww!"

Mycroft was in _agony. _

He was stuck sitting beside his mother, trying not to stare at the old faded photographs of himself and his family. The fact that Isabelle was doing so was bad enough.  
Her pale hand clapped over her mouth and he could tell she was smiling widely beneath her palm. His brow furrowed, trying to hide his disgust.  
He remembered after that day on the picture, he could no longer sleep whilst infant-Sherlock was crying. He would climb out of bed several times a week, sneak past his parent's room, and immediately attempt to soothe his baby brother to varying amounts of success. Sometimes Sherlock was hungry and there was very little he could do about that until he started on solids. Most of the time his mother or father would come in after he did and take over, but every so often they would sleep through it, and Mycroft would hold Sherlock until he fell asleep-either of them.

"I didn't know you used to be a redhead," Isabelle exclaimed, her voice muffled by her hand and her hazel eyes filled with wonder.  
Mr. Holmes, sitting on the other side of Isabelle, pointed out another picture, "Sherlock taking his first baby steps… "  
"His hair," Isabelle muttered, hand off of her mouth. Mr. Holmes chuckled, "Curliest hair you ever did see and impossible to get a brush through."  
_Trivial, meaningless, please get me out of here_, Mycroft thought to himself, crossing his legs at the ankle, lips pressed together tightly.  
The pages were turned a few more times, each showing about the same thing, Sherlock being cute, Mycroft being…less cute. His ears were always shaded a little pink as though he was cold, his cheeks a little rosy too. His hair was orange-turning brown. His eyes big and gray-ish blue (soon to turn dull gray only), at this point still filled with a little curiosity at the world he was yet to truly understand but would claim he always did if asked.

He mused on a picture of Sherlock staring at a sunset on the porch with Redbeard at his side, thin hand resting upon the dog's back. Moments like those rarely happened, but when they did his parents knew exactly when to run for the camera.  
"You had a dog?" Isabelle's voice lowered a little bit, her lip going between her teeth.  
"Redbeard," Chris sighed, "he was… always Sherlock's dog."  
And it was left at that.

"Oh here we go, here's a picture of all of us on Christmas day," Mrs. Holmes tried to flatten a crease with her thumb, her voice filled with perhaps a little too much cheeriness after the fact that Redbeard was gone loomed over their heads.  
Isabelle's smile returned, "Oh, Sherlock in his PJ's… and Mycroft, fully dressed and looking as though he's waiting to meet the queen," she muttered the second bit, glancing at him.  
His parent's response to that was to chuckle, but Mycroft found himself bristling a little bit. He seemed to have the most trouble deciphering Isabelle's expressions, whereas with others he could easily know what they were thinking.  
Shoulders tensing as the page of the album turned, the further in they went, the bigger the ball of tension grew inside of him until they reached one of the final pictures. The group all together, Mycroft fifteen and Sherlock eight. They were all posed together; the only ones smiling were his parents.  
Mycroft swallowed a lump in his throat, because Isabelle was _staring_ very intently at the picture.

His hair had gone completely brown at that point, all color gone from his skin leaving him pale and easy to burn underneath the sun. Years previous he'd discovered "other children" and his view on the world had skewed horribly and would not be fixed for years- which was why his mouth had formed itself into a thin line of distaste and general dislike. Also about that time he'd fallen into a pattern of laziness, staying inside for hours upon hours reading, studying, learning… and just sitting for the sake of it because he couldn't stand the plebian act of running about the yard with Sherlock and the dog. Thus, he wasn't exactly _thin_ at that point. He also happened to be quite tall, which made his appearance overall very awkward.  
Sherlock was quite the opposite of awkward (though his time would come) he was thin, just as pale if not paler, dark curls framing his thin face perfectly. Mycroft had never compared himself to Sherlock beyond their intelligence, which was a blessing really.

Linda unexpectedly eased the album onto Isabelle's lap and stood up, "I have to go check on dinner dears," she said, gesturing for Chris to stand up and follow her into the kitchen, "We'll just be a minute."

There was silence, Isabelle still staring at the picture. He uncrossed his legs and raised an eyebrow at her, "Shocked into silence My Dear?" he joked, forming his mouth into a smirk.  
She looked up at him, "Oh, no," she grinned, "I was just… I feel like I've seen-" she stopped, hummed to herself then shrugged at him, "I hadn't realized what a beautiful family you were," she swallowed.  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Hardly," he replied.  
"Oh stop it," Isabelle snorted, "your parents are wonderful, you're wonderful, Sherlock's sort of wonderful," she counted off on her fingers than waggled them wryly at him, "_Myc_."  
Mycroft shot her a glare, which made her cheeks redden. "Oh, sorry," she cleared her throat, "I just thought it was cute, I won't do that again," she quickly remedied…too quickly. It occurred to him that this was due to her sisters having called her Izzy her entire life. She'd always gone by Isabelle wherever else they'd been, so Izzy must have been another way of patronizing her. She didn't want to do that to him.

He tsked at her showing his carelessness towards the whole thing, "It's alright My Dear, in fact if you prefer…" he paused and considered that line of speech before he came to a startling conclusion that made his insides feel weird, "If you _prefer_, you are perfectly welcome to call me Myc."  
Isabelle's eyes widened, "What? B-but I thought… _really_?"  
How ridiculous this might seem to the common observer, the two of them putting so much stake behind a nickname.  
"Yes," Mycroft said with an air of finality, suddenly deciding to inspect her fingernails, perfect as always.  
"Myc," Isabelle tested it in her mouth, "I like it, thank you," she ran a hand over her thick brown braid.

She looked back down at the picture, "I meant what I said you know… about your family."  
Mycroft saw her happy expression crumble, a soft dewy tear rolling quickly down her thin face.  
"I-I wish you could have met them," she spoke softly, her hand resting upon the book and fingertips just barely touching the faded family picture.  
She was referring to her deceased parents of course.  
"They would have loved you, I mean, maybe not at first _but they would have_," she continued earnestly, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. Mycroft bit back a sarcastic response; instead he closed the space between them on the couch and brushed his fingers over hers without thought, "I would have liked to have met them as well. I am sorry My Dear," he comforted weakly, feeling (oddly enough) guilt about his previous thoughts on his own parents, "The world seems hardly fair, taking away the people that matter the most to us. But, I feel (feel, what a perverse sort of word) that if we remember them and learn from their lives, then it is all worth it."

Whether he truly believed this he didn't know.

The album fell to the floor as Isabelle twisted around and pulled Mycroft into a hug, her face pressed into the space between his collarbone and shoulder. Her fingers dug into his back, "I love you," she whispered.  
He was frequently amazed by her sudden bouts of emotion; she was as quick to anger as she was to forgive. Or from sadness to joy, it was all the same. Quick and a little bit explosive.

Unsure of what exactly he'd said to warrant it, Mycroft found his hands ghosting over her sides in his attempt at a return of the embrace. His lips pressed against her hairline, gaze fixed on nothing in particular as he took it all in.  
He could smell her Anti-dandruff shampoo -it was nice. Most people used fruit scented shampoo, but Isabelle was more practical than that… Besides that, her conditioner smelled like melon, and that was nice too.  
She had said it again; it occurred to him in that offhanded way, she'd said that she loved him. It stirred an odd feeling in his chest. But why exactly? It wasn't as though he really believed in love. Or at least, not in the way people had glorified it.  
Perhaps, he thought as he ran his right hand slowly down her spine (Dear me she was thin, he could feel each bump of her vertebrae) perhaps, it was the vehemence which she put behind those three words. Such honesty he'd never encountered. And for one fleeting moment, he wished he could have said it in return.

This position remained for a good stretch of time. Enough time for his mother and father to reenter the room and see them. Though they were behind him, standing in the doorway, he could sense their presence. Mycroft had to fight the impulse to pull away as though he'd been burned- instead he eased out of the embrace.  
Isabelle reached down and picked up the photo album again, running her fingers across the edge.  
"Myc, could you help me with something in the kitchen?" Mrs. Holmes asked rather suddenly, "Oh-no dear, you wait out here. In fact, it might be a while how about you look at the garden just outside with Chris?" she added as Isabelle began to stand.  
"Oh, ok," the young woman smiled softly, moving across the room to the door leading outside alongside Mr. Holmes he smiled cheekily at his wife before exiting.  
Mycroft tried not to let his confusion show as he made his way into the kitchen behind his mother, removing his jacket immediately and rolling his sleeves up to the elbows. (One of his compulsions he supposed.)  
Linda waved her hand towards a pot of boiling soup, shoving a large spoon into his hand. Mycroft accepted the spoon with a look of distaste, though he didn't express it verbally.

"That girl is absolutely lovely," Mrs. Holmes said without warning, sending cold up her son's spine. "Indeed," he replied smoothly, avoiding eye contact.  
"How long have you two been together exactly?" she persisted. Mycroft wondered why she hadn't asked whilst Isabelle was in the room, something she could have answered herself. "Two years, thirteen days," he supplied blandly.  
He could tell she was staring at him, "That is the longest time I think you've ever spent with anyone that wasn't Sherlock, us. _Or _someone you work with," she added the last one before her son could correct her.  
"The point being?" he inquired rather petulantly, raising the spoon to examine a lump of carrot with far more interest than what was required.  
"My point is that she is lovely, and you clearly like her and I want grandchildren," Linda deadpanned, grinning crookedly when her son suddenly choked on his own saliva.  
Mycroft spun around, spoon dropped into the pot, "I was not put on this earth to provide you with grandchildren!" he said, then paused, "or was I?" he raised an eyebrow at her, a return of her jest. Mrs. Holmes snorted, "That'd be thinking a bit too far ahead," she commented, opening the oven and looking inside.

The younger Holmes turned back to the pot and adjusted the heat, "She is lovely as you say, though I fear giving you grandchildren would require marriage (at least where Isabelle is concerned) and neither of us is quite… ready for that," he managed a shrug thinking of the conversation had but a week ago. He had tried to inject a lack of caring into the whole thing, that was his standby, but realized that he hadn't been all that successful. His hand ran down his right sleeve smoothing out the fabric several times.  
Mrs. Holmes gave her son a sympathetic look behind his back, "Well, if it ever does happen, you know what I want," she slipped on oven mitts and pulled hot bread from the oven.  
"Alright," Mycroft huffed, trying to force down a smile with little success.

The kitchen door opened revealing Isabelle, her hands and knees covered in dirt, alongside Chris who was talking at length about zucchini.  
Upon his questioning gaze Isabelle spoke, "I uh, tripped," she messaged her doubtlessly sore palms. She moved over to the sink and began rinsing the dirt off.  
"Was my fault really, she was looking at me while I _went on_ and she tripped over a rock."  
"I don't mind," Isabelle said quickly, generously applying soap to her hands, "Your garden is gorgeous!" Christopher beamed at the praise, "You're very kind," he winked.  
Mycroft couldn't help but roll his eyes, "She's ruined her perfectly nice jeans," he commented. Isabelle giggled, "I promise I'll do a load of laundry when we go home ok?"  
"You lie," Mycroft replied, eyes narrowed. He was aware that both his parents were staring at them with something akin to wonderment (much like Isabelle had earlier) at the way they talked to each other. As if they'd never seen their son interact with another person in such a manner.

Mycroft found himself smiling widely at Isabelle when his mobile suddenly chirped inside his pocket. Oh God, this was probably bad news. He retrieved the item and pressed it against his ear, "Yes, what it is?" he asked stiffly. The first thing he heard was "Sir".  
By the end of the conversation, he knew he had to leave.

Hanging up, he turned to his family (and Isabelle), "I'm afraid that was my assistant, I'm needed."  
Mrs. Holmes tsked, "But we were just about to have dinner!"  
"Oh yes, there is little more important than _dinner_," Mycroft replied sarcastically, affording him a soft hit on the arm from Isabelle.  
"Sorry," she apologized to his parents, "we should probably go anyways, it's uh, it's a long drive," she bit her bottom lip.  
Linda's expression softened, "Oh _alright,_ it was lovely to meet you Isabelle," she sighed. Mycroft began to usher Isabelle from the kitchen, retrieving his Umbrella before calling Bastian to pick them up –he had spent most of the day in a nearby town.  
"Don't be a stranger," Chris added, "either of you."

Outside, Mycroft was given another hug and a kiss on the cheek from his mother. "You will call soon won't you?" she whispered to him. Mycroft huffed and replied in an even quieter voice, "Yes Mummy."  
He offered his hand to his father who shook it, and then Bastian pulled the vehicle into the driveway.  
The two climbed in, Isabelle waving to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes through the window.  
When it all settled, Mycroft felt a strange stirring inside of him.  
He allowed a glance back at the road which they would soon turn off of, and that led back to the place he had grown up.  
He did truly enjoy being around his parents, even if he didn't show it. He bit the inside of his mouth to focus his mind, when suddenly he found Isabelle's head on his shoulder. He looked at her, her eyes fluttering closed and her breath slowing as she fell asleep. She hadn't commented on that picture, he realized belatedly.  
Alright, he thought sensibly. If he didn't love her. He certainly cared for her.

Caring…

* * *

**I'm still alive WOO!  
Seriously though, sorry this took so long. Two super busy weeks, plus writers block plus… life. I hate life.  
***This is now edited to include more stuff, so if you're looking at this again for any reason at all: there are two new added bits and you should read them... One of them is sort of important. ;)**

**I'm under the impression that Mycroft was an adorable child, and teenager…and adult. *ahem***

**Also, if you're wondering about the names Chris and Linda. It is because of GeorgyannWayson : Check out her (his?) stories they're really good!**

**"Philomena Black Beard"**

**In which Isabelle gets a pet and Mycroft objects…for a little while. And the two come up with very different names for it. (Bit of filler ;)**


	20. Chapter 19- Philomena Blackbeard

**Philomena Black Beard**

The kitchen was quiet, empty and dark. Lily frowned when she checked the clock and realized she'd been reading the diary for hours now. She'd never really focused on a book for more than ten minutes before! She rested her chin against her fist, elbow on the tabletop as she thumbed through a few more drawings her mother had done.

"Lillian, why is it you _never_ seem to listen when I tell you _not to do something_?"

Lily wanted to cry; _of course_ her father had to be standing right behind her! "Because you're always wrong," she shrugged, fingers digging into the pages of Isabelle Holmes' diary.  
Mycroft moved into the room and sat across from his daughter, casually pulling the book from beneath Lily's hand. Lily blew out an aggravated breath, folding her arms and slumping against the back of her chair.  
With unnecessary care Mycroft paged through the small book, brow furrowing as his gaze focused upon the words inside. "This is your mother's diary…" he said, his voice barely a whisper.  
"_No kidding,_" Lily snorted. The glare he shot spoke volumes about what he thought of her attitude. After a few moments, Lillian was surprised to see her father mouthing the words. Then in a very crisp (if not quiet) voice he read aloud.

"_I got myself a pet today. Mycroft didn't much care for her at first, but I think he's beginning to like her. It is sort of hard to tell."_

He paused and looked up with startled gray eyes as if he'd only just then realized what he was doing. Lily gestured with one pale hand, "Go on, uh please," she said, absent mindedly biting her lip. Something stirred inside of her when he smiled in a strangely genuine manner, and eventually continued…

* * *

Isabelle felt guilty.

It was a niggling, back of the mind sort of guilt. One that made her throat close at the idea of carrying the 'item' she'd bought into the house. The box tucked beneath her arm shifted and the creature inside made soft snuffling sounds. Running a hand across the top of the box in a soothing gesture and steeling herself for the upcoming confrontation, Isabelle let out a soft breath then began moving.

Immediately after entry Isabelle could smell tomato sauce being cooked, and she found herself swallowing another lump. Ever since she'd gotten that promotion, she'd been coming in later than Mycroft (well, most of the time considering his propensity to overwork himself). Because of that, he'd taken up greeting her at the door-which ergo meant immediate discovery of what Isabelle had bought.  
The click of his footsteps against the wood floors made her grip tighten upon the box.  
"Good evening My Dear," he greeted, giving her a soft peck on the cheek.  
Isabelle smiled, "Good evening Myc," she replied.  
_Myc_, it still made her smile whenever she thought about it. God, she remembered when she thought he was creepy! (Of course, that hadn't really deterred her.)

"What is that?" Mycroft gestured vaguely to the box beneath her arm. Isabelle tucked some loose hair behind her ear, "Oh yeah, right -it's a box," she grinned weakly.  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, "I can see that Isabelle I was of course referring to the creature you have hidden _inside_ the box… some sort of rodent, larger than a mouse smaller than a Guinea pig…."  
Isabelle sighed, "It's a rat."  
Mycroft's eyebrows raised in surprise at the creature of choice his arms crossing over his chest as he scrutinized her_. 'His sleeves are rolled up_' Isabelle couldn't help but think to herself which soothed her a little. Running a hand over her hair Isabelle attempted to explain, "I was driving home from work and I passed a pet shop. And I thought, why not look inside? -This is one of those small animals pet shops, no dogs or cats," she added quickly, "-I went inside and I saw the rats and… they were so sweet!" she gestured with the box then corrected herself as the animal shifted in surprise, "I had to get her!"  
Mycroft curled his upper lip, "No, you did not _have_ to, unless of course the pet shop owner had forced you to do so at gunpoint."  
Isabelle wrinkled her nose, "You know what I mean," she huffed, "I'm sorry I didn't consult you, but I can't take her back! I promise she'll only stay in my room, and I'll keep her cage perfectly clean if you happen to come in. I just… I only just then realized how much money I had- you know? And I wanted to buy something."  
"So you spent three dollars on a rat? Most people by jewelry or treat themselves to dinner at high class restaurants."  
Isabelle couldn't help but chuckle, "I also bought a cage, the bedding food and all that stuff."

Mycroft made a tsk sound, "My dear, I have never liked animals-"  
"But you won't even have to interact with her!" Isabelle found herself pleading, "And besides, rats are great-very hygienic."  
"They _lick themselves clean_; I hardly would call that hygienic."

He sighed in a resigned manner, which meant that he was backing down on this one-thankfully. Isabelle really didn't want to bring the rat back to the pet store.  
Wordlessly he moved back into the kitchen in all likeliness going to tend the sauce on the stove.  
Isabelle followed him, "Oh that smells so good! - could you uh, keep an eye on her while I get her cage?"  
He wrinkled his nose, "Will it remain in the box?"  
Isabelle nodded her head, "Yes, I'll just leave her on the counter. She doesn't bite though, so if she does escape she won't hurt you."  
Mycroft scoffed, though he didn't reply. Moving the spoon in slow circles through the pan, he studied the box beneath her arm. With a put upon sigh he relented, "Fine."  
"Great!" Isabelle placed it on the counter, making sure it was a safe distance from the stove. Then she quickly darted out of the room to get the cage.

The large bundle of wire caging was surprisingly light, though Isabelle found it hard to balance the other supplies in her arms as well. She shoved her way through the front door, and then carried the items up the stairs and into her room. Moving aside some dirty clothing, she shoved them onto the top of her dresser.  
Setup wasn't too difficult she discovered, if not a little aggravating when the pieces decided they didn't want to go together. When she was finished with construction Isabelle filled the bottom of the cage with bedding, filled the food bowl and the water bottle, hanging it against the side of the cage. Satisfied that she was done, Isabelle jogged back down the stairs and into the kitchen.  
Her brow furrowed when she saw that the sauce was off the burner and steam was no longer rising from it. Confused as to why Mycroft's presence wasn't immediately apparent she looked down at the floor and found a sight she wouldn't soon forget.

Mycroft was sprawled out on his stomach; His left arm stretched out and shoved beneath the space underneath the cupboard. He was making soft little sounds of encouragement as though he was talking to someone hidden beneath. Isabelle swallowed a lump in her throat, incorrigible fondness for the man raised immensely. It rather suddenly hit her _why_ he was on the floor not long after.  
"Mycroft!" she yelped, surging forwards and grasping at the box. The top had been warped and there was a rather rat sized hole where the rodent had pushed herself free.  
"What?" he snapped irritably as he pulled his arm free to twist around and look at her. Isabelle dangled the cardboard box from her fingertips, "What do you think?" she snapped, "I gave you _one job_!"  
Mycroft snorted, turning back to the task at hand, "I looked away for only a moment before that _creature_ pushed its way out. Hardly my fault," he replied tersely.  
"If you had been watching her like I asked-"  
"I did watch her, but I'm sure you've observed I was also preparing dinner. I couldn't just set it aside now could I? Not without ruining the sauce."  
"Well it's ruined now anyways!" Isabelle shot back, though she was smiling down at him. She couldn't help it. It boggled the mind that he would get on the floor to retrieve a rat for her!

"Ah, there we are!"

She blinked as Mycroft retracted his arm, the rat tucked safely in his hand. The small white creature sniffed at his fingers as he lifted her above him for Isabelle to collect.  
She carefully eased her new pet into her pale hands, scratching behind her soft pink ears with one finger, "Oooh, there we go Philomena," she cooed.  
Mycroft wrinkled his nose, "_Philomena?_" he asked, climbing to his feet with the aid of the countertop. Isabelle shrugged, "Just testing, I kind of like it. Why, what would you name her?"  
Much to her surprise he considered this for a moment, looking the creature over with analytical gray eyes, "Let's see," he finally spoke in a low sort of rumble which he usually used when thinking deeply and talking at the same time, "There is a patch of black fur just on her chin and nowhere else on her body…add a touch of sentiment to the naming process as most people do…a trace of my brother… and I would say- _Blackbeard_."  
"Blackbeard?" Isabelle raised her eyebrows, "But she's a girl!"  
"And? She is also not a human. Many animals of the female persuasion can have beards-such as goats," he smiled, showing off his teeth.

Isabelle snorted, fighting the urge to ask how he knew _anything_ about goats. Instead she held Philomena up against her collar bone, feeling the tickle of her whiskers against her bare skin. Mycroft seemed resolute in his naming decision, spinning around to reheat the tomato sauce.  
"Hm, Philomena Blackbeard then?" she asked the rodent, "how does that sound?"  
"You are talking to an animal my dear, the likeliness of her understanding a name-much less being able to express her opinion on the matter- seems rather low," Mycroft replied, taking a pot of already done (and probably cold) spaghetti and bringing it into the dining room.  
"Don't listen to him," Isabelle said to the creature (if only to annoy her boyfriend), "He's just jealous because I like you more than him already."  
There was a short derisive laugh which emanated from the dining room which made Isabelle burst out laughing herself, "I'm only kidding!"  
Mycroft entered the room again, "Oh, I believe you," he said in an (of course) overly disbelieving voice, still smiling. Philomena Blackbeard craned her neck to see Mycroft.  
"Well, I do believe that Blackbeard likes me more than she likes you," he added, absentmindedly running his fingers from Philomena's head down to her tail.

"Traitor… and her name isn't Blackbeard!"

* * *

**This one is… so short. I realized pretty quickly that I had nearly no plot for this chapter, just cuteness. If anyone is thinking of getting a rodent of any kind I highly recommend a rat- maybe two because they're very social animals. ;) (I myself own a gerbil…who recently died. *Ahem* But two of my sisters own\owned rats and they're great!)  
Anyways, the next chapter has more in it I swear!  
Also, again I'm sorry for the wait. I don't really have any excuses this time, I just haven't been able to sit down and write!**

**I know I take forever to write these sometimes, but I hope you'll still stick around. There are about eleven more chapters that I want to write and am GOING to write dagnabit! I'm determined! XD**

**"Phobia"**

**In which Isabelle and Mycroft take another try at a picnic, and end up talking about phobias. Isabelle learns that Mycroft is afraid of more than horses. ;)**


	21. Chapter 20- Phobia

**Phobia**

"Where did you get this?"

His hand hovered barely above the pages, right over a crude picture of Philomena Blackbeard. Lily bit her bottom lip, wondering if she should rat out her Uncle. Her father's intense gaze made her focus upon the tabletop.  
"Lillian-"  
"Uncle Sherlock. He said he stole it right after she died."  
A muscle in Mycroft's jaw seemed to tighten considerably, "Mm…"  
_Eloquently put daddy_ Lily thought uncharitably, wondering if her father was going to read anything beyond what was written about the rat. There was a long bout of silence, but then her father finally spoke in a quiet tone, "How long have you had this?"  
Lillian swallowed, "Half a day I guess," she replied, tangling one finger in her blonde hair.  
"And you didn't think to inform me that you had it?" it wasn't an accusation, it sounded as though he was truly curious.  
"It did once or twice, but I thought you'd take it away," Lily shrugged still not looking at his face, "You tend to do that with everything interesting."  
"If this is about the squirrel again ..." he stopped then tried again with a bothered sigh, "My point is, I would have liked to have known. You may keep reading this if you'd like," he stopped pushed it across the small expanse of table, "I would of course, prefer if you join us for meals, and if you don't then you don't eat at all-is that understood?"  
"Yes," Lily rolled her eyes, though she found herself smiling at her father as she collected the diary.

Mycroft stood up, "Goodnight My Dear," he kissed the top of her head.  
Lily watched him leave with undisguised wonderment. She ran a finger across the spine of the diary before opening it to the correct page, feeling a horrible guilt that she hadn't experienced before her father had found out…Probably because her Uncle Sherlock was now going to die a horrible death.

* * *

Isabelle sat upon an overly nice blanket, he had a cup of orange juice and a sandwich-though she wasn't eating or drinking either of them. She was surprisingly content, even though the man beside her wasn't.  
"You wouldn't have so much trouble if you weren't wearing a three piece suit," Isabelle said, watching her boyfriend try every sitting position possible so as not to get wrinkles in the fabric of his trousers.  
Mycroft looked at her as though she was insane, "What would you suggest, jeans and a jumper?" he said both of those as though they were disgusting to him.  
Isabelle (who was wearing jeans and a jumper) frowned, "Right," she huffed.

Picnicking a second time, not the best idea. She thought she might have suggested a fancy restaurant when Mycroft had offered. Instead she'd come up with a picnic. He'd stared at her for a good two minutes before he replied with a sounding "of course, whatever you'd like My Dear."  
He was being kind, it was Isabelle's birthday. She didn't know how he knew when she didn't even know until he told her! Throughout the years of their relationship her birthday had fallen onto the back burner of caring. Only when she had come downstairs to find Mycroft at the dining room table with a cheesecake, two cups of hot chocolate, and a coy Cheshire cat smile-did it occur to her what day it was.

Sipping her orange juice Isabelle found herself moving closer to Mycroft, resting her free hand on his thigh. He looked mildly startled before he settled, his mouth forming into a soft and genuine smile.  
"At least, it does not look as though it will rain," he commented, turning his gray stare towards the sky. There was a certain chill in the air, but it was otherwise sunny to which Isabelle was thankful.  
"No kidding," she mumbled, thinking of their last picnic with only the slightest amount of fondness. Not her best day- but at least it hadn't been her worst either.  
Mycroft looked seemingly content at that point, taking in the surroundings. Isabelle thought he might be making deductions about the passersby. She fought the urge to ask about any of them.

Her enjoyment of the day was cut down by a sudden sharp bark, which made her go rigid and her fingers to dig into Mycroft's thigh. He yelped in protest but Isabelle didn't hear him. Her gaze had landed upon an older looking woman leading a… _a dog _on its_ leash_ along the path. It was coming towards them!  
Isabelle found herself shoving her orange juice onto the blanket (effectively spilling some over the rim) then diving into the gap between Mycroft and the tree. She grabbed his shoulders, using him as some sort of shield.  
"What on earth are you doing?!" Mycroft protested, though there was a certain alertness to him that made Isabelle glad she'd chosen to hide behind him. He would protect her!  
The woman walking that-that… _thing_, frowned in confusion as she passed them.  
"I rather assumed dogs weren't allowed in this park," Mycroft commented, "considering all the signs they had put up."  
Isabelle took this as a question; he was asking if the dog was her problem. _Which it most certainly was! _"P-people don't like signs," she stuttered, "They don't like being told what to do."  
"They certainly don't," he replied with an indignant sniff.

As the woman left both of their lines of vision, Isabelle felt relief wash through her. Despite this, tears came to her eyes and she pressed her forehead against Mycroft's back. He sort of twisted around so that he could put an arm around her though his hand went limp rather than gripping her shoulder, "Are you… alright?" he asked softly.  
"Yeah," Isabelle said wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, "I'm okay."  
Isabelle had lived a pleasured life when it came to not running into those… animals. If she ever saw one coming, there was always somewhere to hide. Some place she could go to breathe.  
Mycroft made a soft humming sound in the back of his throat, "That woman- recently divorced with three children and a mild drinking problem."  
Isabelle smiled despite herself, "Oh yes? And what can you deduce about the dog?"  
"He is commonly made to wear ugly sweaters, he is neutered, and he is also very well behaved," he gave her a pointed look.

Isabelle moved away from Mycroft, hands formed into fists, "I'm sure he is," she snarled, "perfect little sharp toothed monster with beady little hungry eyes!"  
Mycroft's eyebrows shot up, "I hadn't realized you disliked dogs this much," he commented, smiling at her almost gloatingly. Isabelle wasn't sure why.  
"They're evil," she half joked whilst also wiping her nose with her sleeve much to her boyfriend's disgust.  
"And, might I ask exactly spurred such a strong aversion to dogs?" Mycroft questioned, suddenly focusing his attention upon the orange juice spill.  
Isabelle looked sourly at him, "I was bitten when I was a child. I didn't do anything to it, I didn't go near it on purpose!" she bit her bottom lip remembering the horrible pain which seared through her arm, "I was a small child, something my sisters used to tease me about before I became two heads taller than the both of them," she smiled when Mycroft scoffed at her sister's misplaced cruelty, "I was playing hide and seek in the old park where we used to live, when a dog that had gotten off its leash came towards me…" she shuddered, " I don't know why he bit me, maybe I smelled bad to him," she frowned.  
"A perfectly just reason to suffer Cynophobia," Mycroft concluded attempting to fold his over each other.  
Isabelle made a face at him, "Cynophobia? A-a fear of dogs?"  
He nodded, "Exactly."

Isabelle grabbed her braid and began picking a few loose strands, "And uh, if you don't mind me asking... what's a fear of horses called?"

He blinked at her, " Equinophobi**a** or if you prefer: hippophobia," he supplied, looking at her curiously.

Isabelle wished she hadn't asked, because now he was looking at her perhaps a little too intensely. She ran her fingers across a small patch of grass at the edge of the blanket, expelling a soft breath through a thin part in her lips.  
"Is that what you have?" she asked, turning her hazel eyes upon him. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably unfolding his legs and attempting to instead sit with his knees against his chest. Isabelle admired his pale soft skinned hands and well-trimmed fingernails as they were clasped together in front of him,  
"Yes."  
"Why?"  
"Why _what_?" he questioned, rearing a little at the question as though it was one of the more perplexing things he'd heard that day. This made little sense because she thought she heard him say something about the Russian Ambassador when on the phone earlier that day and that definitely perplexed her quite a bit.

"Why are you afraid of horses?" she persisted, "I mean, did one bite you or something?" she couldn't help but snort.  
He sucked air through his teeth which made her regret the joke, had he really been bitten? There was a moment before he spoke, his cheeks surprisingly reddened, "A horse has done absolutely nothing to me."

"Then why-?"

Mycroft cut her off with a tutting sound, "One thing about a phobia My Dear is that there doesn't have to be any logical reason behind it. Horses are frankly enormous creatures that bare enough weight to break a person's foot if they step on you. They have teeth that can bite nearly through a person's arm if they so wished and they are also easily startled... but I hadn't really considered any of that when I first came across one."

Isabelle tilted her head, "When did you ever come across a horse?" she asked, wondering if he also came across goats that day and that was why he knew_anything_ about them.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in certain distaste for the topic, outstretched his right leg whilst the other remained bent, "When I was thirteen my parents decided to take us on vacation... to a horse ranch of sorts," he cleared his throat uncomfortably.  
Isabelle's eyes widened, "Oh my God!" she yelped.  
He smiled crookedly at her in response, "It wasn't all that bad My Dear-"  
"Myc you can't just say that," the young woman chided immediately amazed by the way he shrugged off the whole ordeal. She could just imagine what it would be like to be stuck on a farm filled with dogs!

"_It wasn't all that bad- _because upon day two I pretended to have a stomach virus. My parents had already paid for the whole ordeal so I stayed indoors and read books the entire time," he tilted his chin upwards proudly.  
Isabelle put two fingers to the bridge of her nose, "Oh."  
"Of course I was perplexed by my initial reaction and there was the night before in the barn... otherwise I had a wonderful time."

Isabelle wondered if he was being vague just to drive her insane, she pursed her lips as she considered a safe way to ask about "the night before in the barn" when something struck her, "Did you not tell your parents you were afraid of horses?"  
It was his turn to tilt his head vaguely to the right, "Why would I? I didn't desire to trouble them, nor cut their vacation short."  
God this man was infuriating! He seemed to have some sort of ingrained desire not to inconvenience people even when he was horribly inconvenienced himself! Sure he was an annoying at times of course (sometimes on purpose), but that didn't mean he wasn't a huge people pleaser.

Decidedly Isabelle didn't question him further, it was her birthday. Not a time to talk about fear and phobias. Though she did wonder...  
"You don't have any other phobias do you? I don't... I don't want to make you do something if you're afraid of it."  
His expression turned sour, "_Do you_?"  
She considered this for a moment. Sure (as it has been mentioned before) she was afraid of a few things. But certainly none of them were debilitating. Unlike being around a canine which had one a few occasions caused her to climb a tree in escape.  
"No, I guess I don't," she shrugged.  
He seemed to consider her for a moment then he cast a few uneasy glances around as though someone might be listening before he said in a whisper, "Aquaphobia."

It took a few moments for the young woman process the new information, when she did she shook her head, "That doesn't make sense-"  
He raised his hand to silence her, "Large bodies of water such as oceans, ponds, swimming pools, and lakes. I'm perfectly alright with showers, rain, and even baths."  
"But... Why? How?" Isabelle admitted to certain amount of confusion.  
Mycroft sighed deeply, "If I focus hard upon a different subject I can be driven across bridges just fine. The same as on a plane, mind over matter. As to why, I nearly drowned once and have absolutely no desire to try for death a second time."  
There was a certain amount of uncomfortable silence, Isabelle biting her bottom lip. Eventually a though came to her which she thought might lighten the mood if expressed out loud, "You know, I think I only knew the name of one phobia before now..."

"Oh?"

She grinned, " Uh, yeah. G- ahem- Gynaphobia," she shrugged, a blush spreading across her freckled face. She was amused to see him nearly choke on his own saliva (payback).  
"A fear of nudity!" he exclaimed, gray eyes wide with wonderment, "Why on earth-?"  
Isabelle couldn't help but laugh, _"Don't ask."  
_He offered his usual breathy _almost_ laugh, closing the space between them and offering her a tender kiss which she reciprocated eagerly.

Parting, Isabelle picked up the basket and placed it on her lap, "How about we actually eat something?"  
"A delightful suggestion My Dear," he replied smoothly.  
Isabelle began pulling things from the basket whilst Mycroft set about ensuring blanket straightness. She wasn't watching him and was thus startled when he suddenly spoke, "Oh yes, I did forget to say- Happy Birthday." For someone who hated the celebration of his own birthday, he certainly had gone out of his way to make hers special.

"Thanks Myc... So far it's been a pretty great one."

* * *

**I know, cheesy ending. I'm bad at ending chapters ok, I just am! XP**

**Hope you don't find Mycroft having Aquaphobia too unbelievable. I don't know when or why I came up with it, but early on I decided he had it *shrug*. I guess it sort of explains why I never have him driving himself anywhere haha.  
Also may I say a fear of horses can be founded… I'm not really afraid of horses (I happen to take care of two of my sister's horses) but I've had some bad experiences with one of them being buddy sour and yelling and stomping around me and…*shiver* **

**Anywho, hope you liked it per usual. If you really liked it, saw any grammatical errors (I did very little editing on this one) or such and such please leave a review. ;)**

**"Oblivious and Obvious"**

**In which William from Isabelle's work hits on Isabelle (with no foreknowledge of Mycroft Holmes) and Isabelle is completely oblivious. Mycroft (who happens to be there to pick her up for a date) ****_isn't _****though.**


	22. Chapter 21- Oblivious and Obvious

**Oblivious and Obvious-**

Aquaphobia huh? Well, Lillian was going to need to use that at some point- leverage of some sort. Her lip went between her teeth as she skimmed through a few one sentence entries (mostly filled with either information on her work, Philomena Blackbeard, or Mycroft Holmes) none of those things being of particular interest. Eventually she came to a long entry detailing her day, and Lillian smiled.

* * *

Isabelle enjoyed her work more than she could say.  
It challenged her and yet gave her time to herself if stress began to overcome. It was quiet, but not eerily so, and believe it or not she liked the people too.  
Madelyn Ross was a naturally friendly person- someone you might talk to if you were in trouble- but also very much in command of everything. There was Bennita Hollister who… Ok maybe she wasn't Isabelle's favorite person but she was a good worker.  
Mariana Lane and William Phillips who only came by when something needed fixing, both were very kind, hard workers, and fun to talk to. William seemed to come by rather often actually…

Isabelle was busy typing out notes she'd taken during a meeting with Madelyn's "bosses", her lip held tightly between her teeth as she focused. Staring for too long at the white screen was beginning to make her eyes hurt, but she didn't dare look away from what she was doing.  
Things had gotten quite a bit harder since her promotion, not that she minded! It just meant she had to "focus her abilities" as Mycroft had once put it.  
Back at the café Isabelle had been certain she had no abilities and that she would never go anywhere in life! How wrong she was. Or at least: _How mildly incorrect her assumptions had been_! -Yes, that sounded better.  
Thinking of that old café made a lump form in Isabelle's throat. _No, no, no think of something else_ she mentally chided herself. Decidedly she checked the time in the corner of her computer screen realizing that soon Mycroft would be coming to pick them up for a "proper date".

"Hey Iz!"

Isabelle startled horribly when cheerful voice from behind her suddenly sounded. She spun around in her chair to see William Phillips standing over her. His brown hair- which usually sat shaggy over his forehead- had been combed and perhaps even gelled. Isabelle took in his uncovered brown eyes, shaded like dark chocolate. When he smiled he had dimples, which she had always adored about him. "_Jesus!_ You ok?" he asked as Isabelle took in a few calming breaths to overcome being startled.  
"Yes," she replied quickly, "You just caught me by surprise."  
William's smile grew till he was showing off all of his crooked teeth, "Sorry," he apologized, "I just get too excited whenever I'm given the chance to see you, you know?"  
Isabelle snorted, "No, I don't…" she said effacingly, "You see me almost every day Will," she added, raising an eyebrow at him.  
"Uh, right," William replied slowly, "but that's the point. I never grow tired of you," he winked making Isabelle half snort -half giggle.  
William continued his grin, "It's the truth Iz I swear!" he put a hand over his heart. Isabelle couldn't help but bristle at the shortening over her name, though she tried not to show it.

From the corner of her eye she saw Mycroft Holmes enter and stand by the door upon seeing her in conversation. He cut his usual elegant figure leaning against his umbrella lightly. Isabelle had begun to notice that he almost _posed _whenever he stopped walking, and he probably had no idea he was doing it.  
Isabelle's mouth curved into a fond smile which unbeknownst to her, spurred her companion on.  
"You still workin' on the Leeds meeting?"  
Isabelle turned her hazel eyes to William, "Yep. Though it wasn't _about_ Mr. Leeds," she corrected pointlessly, "I like the man, but he droned on for quite a while and I need to condense these notes before giving them to Mrs. Ross."  
"Jesus, that's a lot of notes," William commented as Isabelle scrolled through a few pages, "Smart and beautiful, wow…" he forwardly lifted his leg so that he was half sitting on the desk.  
Isabelle had never been called beautiful by anyone besides Mycroft (and even then it hadn't been an outright "you're beautiful") so her cheeks burned. William was being rather complimentary, which she deemed odd but not unwanted.

Isabelle thought she saw Mycroft's posture straighten as soon as William began sitting on the desk, his gray eyes slightly narrowed. What was he looking at so closely?  
She tried to block him from her mind when William placed his hand upon the wooden surface. He had slightly callused fingers from toying with the inside of computers, his fingernails were trimmed sloppily, maybe even chewed short.  
"Do you know, in the correct lighting… your eyes look almost green?" he purred.  
Isabelle blinked at him, "Uh… no I didn't actually. - Really?"  
"Oh yeah, a pale green, very pretty."  
_And what's wrong with Hazel?_ Isabelle thought wryly to herself, shifting her position uncomfortably in her seat, "Th-thanks…I guess," she smiled crookedly up at him.

William had started saying something about her typing and how she could probably do a lot of "other things with her hands" or _something_ along those lines (To be truthful she had stopped listening) her mouth formed into a frown as she put down a missing comma in the last sentence, "You mean like knitting?" she had replied absent mindedly.

"Are you ready to go My Dear?"

For the second time that day Isabelle spun around in her chair with an audibly startles gasp.  
"Would people stop doing that!" she barked despite herself.  
William raised an eyebrow at the other man, seemingly ignoring the previous object of his attention. "Who're you?"  
Mycroft smiled so coldly it made the other man step back, "_The escort_."  
Isabelle snorted, "Sounds about right."  
The younger man wrinkled his rather small (unimpressive as Isabelle would later describe it as hypocritical as that was) nose, "So're you… related?" he asked with a sort of hiccough.  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, which seemed to be the catalyst for William to jump off of Isabelle's desk.  
"No, he's my uh…boyfriend," Isabelle explained, realizing that while "boyfriend" sounded good in her head, it certainly sounded weird out loud, "Myc-roft uh, Mycroft Holmes this is William Phillips our resident IT person."  
William blinked several times, "You've got to be kidding me, he-he's old enough to be your dad!" he yelped.

Mycroft, much to his credit, seemed rather unmoved by that comment.  
Isabelle on the other hand was horribly affronted!

"He does not!" she yelped, deciding to stand up (because being offended while looking up at the offender was rather ridiculous).  
"Come now, I'm hardly old enough to be her father. There is a mere six year difference between us," Mycroft said, looking down his nose at the other man, "Mr. Phillips I think it best that you leave now before you embarrass yourself further."  
William cleared his throat, quailing under the other man's gaze, "Right, I'd better leave actually 'cause Bennita said something earlier about her screen going all…_wobbly_. So uh, yeah. Bye Iz, lovely talking with you!"

"_Isabelle._ I do wonder on the populace's need to shorten perfectly fine names," Mycroft said, frowning at the back of William who had made a rather hasty retreat.  
"Don't be too upset with him, he means well he's just… a man," Isabelle snorted.  
"And what pray tell is that supposed to mean?" Mycroft asked, smiling at her. Isabelle pulled herself close to him, putting her hands against his chest as she kissed him softly, "It means that you think you have the right to call someone Iz without asking if I'm ok with it," she mumbled, "I'm only joking of course," she added for good measure, because she was nothing if not polite at the random-est of moments.  
Without thought she pulled away so that she could sit at her desk again, preparing to send the notes to Mrs. Ross' computer.

"So…what was that about exactly? I mean, do you know why William was acting so…weird?" she finally asked, turning around to face him. Mycroft had busied himself it seemed with organizing her desk toys (of which she had many).  
"You don't know?" he asked incredulously.  
"No," Isabelle replied, turning off her computer quickly and then retrieving her coat.  
"Fascinating."  
"Myc!" Isabelle protested, "Are you going to tell me?"

He looked at her with a surprising amount of fondness and perhaps even adoration before he replied smoothly, "It's nothing of real importance My Dear, I believe he was making an extra attempt to be friendly," he shrugged casually, then offered his arm for Isabelle to take.  
She wasn't quite sure she believed him, but decided against objecting this time. Best live in blissful ignorance and hopefully William would treat her normally again!  
The two walked into the elevator, silence filling the small space. Isabelle pulled on her coat (refusing her companion's offer for help).

"I'm going away for a week."

Isabelle blinked, processing the new and slightly random information, "Oh… ok, where?" she managed, thinking of what a week without Mycroft Holmes would be like. Lonely.  
"I'm afraid I can't really say My Dear, though if it helps-I need to take a plane to get there," he smirked briefly.  
Isabelle swallowed a lump in her throat, "Ok, yeah. That's fine. And I guess this is for work?" she asked casually.  
"Of course," he replied, "What else would it be for?"  
Isabelle snorted, "Who knows what you do in your free time!" she exclaimed perhaps a little too loudly for the enclosed space. It served its purpose though as it brought out a breathy laugh from Mycroft.  
He turned towards her and leaned in, offering an indulgent kiss. Isabelle placed her hands against his sides as he did the same to her.  
To any outside observer this could probably be viewed as snogging in the elevator, but neither cared in the slightest bit.  
When did he become so easy to touch? When did life become this wonderful?

_Why did she have to feel this way right before everything went wrong?_

* * *

**Hey, remember me? Yeah, I'm still writing this thing isn't that amazing?****Lol**

**For the fiftieth time, sorry for the lateness (and the shortness) of this chapter (I was too busy reading Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul Jabbar, so sue me! And I was also very dissapointed when I didn't get any Birthday presents last week from you guys. What the heck! Lol) I hope you liked it. It occurs to me that I've never really been flirted with, so if that seems weird well… too bad. Haha.**

**The next chapter is going to be a two -parter though! And also very important to this whole thing so no skipsies. ;)  
I'm not sure yet if I'm going to post them at the same time or not, so I'll only give you the first one's description:**

**"Anniversary"**

**In which Mycroft doesn't call and Isabelle freaks out. And then he returns, and Isabelle questions the way he treats her. (And that's about all I can give you without sort of spoiling the ending haha)**


	23. Chapter 22- Anniversary (Part 1)

**Anniversary-**

Lily made her way upstairs, passing her father's study, the guest room, and her brother's room (stopping to peek inside and say goodnight to Alistair before she continued on her way) and finally arriving at her own bedroom.  
She entered, placing the diary on her cluttered desk so that she could prepare for coming sleep.  
In her pajamas she climbed beneath the covers and closed her eyes...then she opened them again. Irately she turned on her bedside lamp, climbed out from under the covers and grabbed the book.  
She situated herself once again in her bed and opened the diary to the current page, thinking that she would stop at one more entry.

Reading through it though, it turned out to be less easy than that.

* * *

It didn't take much for Isabelle to panic.  
From her first five years of life whenever her mother or father left for work she would throw a fit, and after her father passed on she would freak out if her mother came home even ten minutes late from work! She grew out of this, especially when her mother wound up at the hospital for the first time. She learned to grow up, she didn't learn how to handle abuse, but she grew up.  
Maria and Gloria would be gone far too often for her to worry about them anyways.

Now, having learned and adapted and changed, Isabelle thought she might be able to handle the absence of her boyfriend. And she did. For the first week, she did quite well. She was bored half the time. She missed the playful banter over breakfast and dinner. She missed the way he would touch her as though she was made of glass, and the way he kissed her was rather heavenly, and besides that she completely missed the way he would cook for her each night and each morning! But it was only a week, she could cope.  
The second week was truly what threw her, because she had been promised that his return would be on Monday around noon (she'd taken the day off for the express purpose of making up for lost time). When this didn't happen, she paced around the house like a caged lion, every so often peaking at her phone for some sign that he had tried to call her.  
The next day she decided to let it slide that perhaps he was going to be a few days late, she almost expected it anyways…right?

So she waited.

_And waited, and waited, and waited._

She waited so long the second week had gone by, and by the first day of the third week she started to panic. Really bad!  
She wandered into work lost and disoriented, which thankfully didn't leak too horribly into her work. Her Co-workers danced around her not exactly sure what to do (especially William, though whether that was due to her mood or because of their last encounter she wasn't sure).  
Most didn't even know what the problem _was_. Certainly a lot of them had met the tall man in the suit that held her hand fiercely at the party last year, but nothing more.  
The only one who seemed to really grasp the whole thing was Madelyn Ross.

"Isabelle, there's a problem with that meeting I asked you to arrange with Katlin Donohue; it seems you haven't _arranged it."  
_Isabelle looked up from her computer screen which had an open E-mail from Bastian detailing how he had no idea where his boss was, and he was a little bit worried too. _"But also, don't worry Miss Long, he's always busy he probably just got caught up with a… foreign dignitary thing-y."  
_"Oh god, sorry Mrs. Ross," Isabelle apologized quickly, grabbing the phone off the receiver to do what had been asked, only to remember she had no idea who she would call to get a meeting with Katlin Donohue.  
Mrs. Ross sighed softly, "Still hasn't returned has he?" she asked, pressing her knuckles against the smooth surface of Isabelle's desk.  
The younger woman shook her head, suddenly blinking back large, hot tears. Her mouth twisted as she tried to contain a sob, to little avail.  
Her boss extended a hand to touch Isabelle's shoulder, "Oh dear," she mumbled in that exasperated sort of way- reminding Isabelle of her mother- with that thought her crying increased. Isabelle wiped furiously at her eyes trying to pull herself together, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm so upset it's just…why hasn't he called?!" she sniffled.  
"I'm not sure, knowing him he's so caught up in his work he just forgot."  
"Mycroft doesn't forget things!" Isabelle objected, too sharply for her taste. She shoved her palms against her closed eyes, "He doesn't."  
Madelyn snorted, "Alright, he doesn't. I worked with the man for quite a bit way back when. He's completely devoted to his work, isn't there a chance that a simple phone call might have slipped his mind? Or maybe he hasn't had any free time."

"Or he's dead!"

The older woman looked down at her employee with wide eyes, "He's not dead!" she protested, "I think if he was dead someone would have told you."  
Isabelle shook her head, "No one really knows about me, they wouldn't have said. Oh my god, he's dead I know he's dead!"

It went on like that for an inordinately long time, with Madelyn offering as much assurance as she could without losing her temper. Isabelle knew this was irrational, and perhaps the clingy part of her coming out (something that had chased away most of her boyfriends, or so they said), but she needed to know he was ok!  
Eventually Madelyn gave Isabelle the option to take the day (or week) off, but she refused finally ceasing her tearful tirade. She needed something to do, to keep her mind off Mycroft's absence. And work was the best option.  
Madelyn nodded in understanding, "I know everything seems hopeless right now Miss Long, but don't give up hope just yet."

More listless days past, and Isabelle switched quite suddenly from sadness to anger. How dare he not call her! How dare he!  
In a pit of righteous anger she went into the library and disorganized all the books. That would drive him crazy.  
Her anger didn't last long though, just a few days. The final three included restless unease, not any strong emotion immediately present- rather waiting in the wing for something to actually happen.

* * *

Isabelle's pale fingers traced over the small calendar page she'd taped inside her diary. Circled in blue marker was their Third year Anniversary. Mycroft had assured her that they would go out to dinner at her favorite restaurant and celebrate such a long time spent without one or both of them going insane. Isabelle had laughed at the joke, but took the promise quite seriously.  
She went out not long after the date had been circled and she used her newfound funds to buy herself a new dress for the occasion.  
As she let Philomena Blackbeard climb across her bony shoulders, and generally use her body as a jungle gym- she questioned that decision.

The end of week three she found herself pulling on the dress. It was a deep opal blue, with a line of silver around the chest which it clung to precariously. There was nothing holding the dress up except for the sheer tightness of it. It hugged to her thin frame, running down her ankles with long slit that went up to her knee on the side.  
Her hair was released from its usual braid and brushed within an inch of its life leaving her hair somewhat glossy and wavy. She even applied makeup, the slightest bit of eyeshadow, lipstick, and blush. To finish off the look she had clipped a golden hairclip had been placed to keep the hair on the left side of her face back.  
All in all, she thought herself quite fetching. Considering how she'd felt about herself two years ago, that was quite an improvement!

Silently she walked down the stairs, entered the dining room, and waited for Mycroft Holmes to arrive.

It was near midnight when it actually happened.

Isabelle jolted to her feet (having gone from sitting to standing in random intervals) at the sight of his black car pulling into the driveway. Her breaths came in ragged as relief swept over her; it felt like being dunked beneath the water at the public pool.  
She made her way to the front door on flat black shoes (she was too tall for high heels she'd decided) and she waited. And it was the wait that turned her relief back into the familiar anger.

_Because he hadn't called!_

She heard the sound of his key going into the lock, and then it being removed and most likely shoved into his pocket. The door creaked slightly as it was opened, and Isabelle saw the all too familiar face of the man she loved- but at that moment only barely.  
He stopped upon sight of her and smiled rather brightly -far too brightly for Mycroft Holmes.  
"Ah, My Dear you're ready," he commented.  
Isabelle responded with the only thing she could, "Mycroft Hershel-Alexander Holmes where have you BEEN?!"

There was a startled pause, wherein Mycroft looked a bit like a fish. Eventually he had the mind to respond, "How do you know my middle names?"  
God, of all the things to ask!  
Tersely Isabelle crossed her arms, "I spent a day with your parents and you went to the bathroom- do the math."  
He scoffed at the mention of his parents- somehow infuriating her further.  
"I told you I cannot disclose the location," he said, "but I digress. My Dear if we are to have our Anniversary dinner-"  
Isabelle recoiled against his hand on her wrist, pulling her hands towards her collar bone, "Don't touch me! And it's too late to go to the restaurant it's past midnight!"  
He seemed to ruminate on this (clearly ignoring his lack of knowledge on the time of night) then he finally pulled off another oddly happy smile, "Alright then, if you would please move just a little bit this way…" his voice trailed off as he once again made an attempt to touch her.

Isabelle felt the tears forming and burning behind her eyes. He didn't care! He well and truly _did-not-care!  
_She shoved her fist into his arm which stopped his attempts to move her, "I said don't touch me!" she almost snarled. The emotions she'd been bottling up for the past four days began surfacing, "Just…just…leave me alone!"

With that she turned and ran up the stairs.  
Isabelle wished that her standby for being upset wasn't to run away. The sane thing to do was to talk things through with him, figure out why he hadn't called. No, demand it! Tell him that it wasn't ok to treat her like that, and if he did it again she'd…well, she wasn't sure what she would do, but it wouldn't be pretty.  
With no prior thought she stormed into Mycroft's bedroom rather than her own, involuntarily taking in the smell of vanilla coming from his bed, and the general "Mycroft-iness" of the room.  
Holding her breath she found herself walking slowly towards the end of the bed and sitting upon it, sinking into the layers of memory foam, blankets, and whatever else he'd done to make it impossibly soft to sleep on.  
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, taking in a few calming breaths. She was ok, she was in control!

* * *

Isabelle had no idea how long it took before Mycroft came into the room - long enough for him to prepare a plate of chicken and rice in some sort of tomato sauce.  
Isabelle was still at the end of his bed, staring at the wall-not daring to look at the man or the food he carried.  
Her throat constricted when he spoke in a gentle tone, "I'd assumed you hadn't eaten."  
He offered the plate, garnering no reaction from her. Eventually he set the food onto his bedside table, then turned his attention back to her, "My Dear, I wanted to apologize-"

"Am I stupid?"

There was a brief silence, "Pardon?"  
Ah, she'd bewildered him. Good. Folding her hands on her lap, Isabelle finally turned her head to look up at her boyfriend. His brow was furrowed in concentration and confusion, trying to grasp the flow of the conversation and failing.  
"It's a simple question _My Dear_. Am I stupid?" she disliked the mocking tone she'd taken on, but knew she couldn't stop.  
To his credit, Mycroft answered the question quite quickly, "Of course not."  
A soft smile crept at the corners of Isabelle's mouth, though it was hardly a pleased one. It was pitying. "Compared to you then- am I stupid?"

The pause that accompanied that question gave her the answer she needed.

"Now see, I'm your goldfish," she mumbled, feeling suddenly choked.  
"My Dear…_Isabelle_, you are not-"  
"But that's how you see me!" Isabelle snapped, standing up to stare into his cold gray eyes, "That has always been how you see me."  
Mycroft stared back, "Hardly," he deadpanned.  
She shook her head, "No… I know how you see me. Isabelle can't be troubled with my job, Isabelle can't be worried when I'm in the hospital, Isabelle-_bloody-_ Long is too stupid to care if I call or not! Oh, she'll probably forget about me!"  
She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, "That has never been how I viewed you."

"You lie Myc, _so much_. Compared to you, I'm the goldfish or-or the t-trained ape that stays at home and provides a good conversation once in a while," she rubbed at her eyes which were dry but still stung, "But you know what? I'm not the goldfish here, you are!"  
That was the breaking point and she knew it, the hurt and anger that flitted across his face was rather hard to look at. She knew in the back of her mind she was being unfair, but wasn't it all true?  
Isabelle could tell he was about to speak, some long overwhelming speech about his intelligence and "how dare she compare him to a fish"! Sensing this she cut him off to explain herself.  
"Don't worry, you're a smart goldfish. A really, really smart goldfish. But, you're like everyone else. Trapped in your little glass orb completely closed off from everything else. Staring. Waiting, swimming around in an orbit and completely forgetting everyone around you and the few people that care when it's convenient for you!"

His eyes narrowed slightly, "I see," he said icily, "Three years and this is how you view me," he seemed to collapse in on himself whilst still standing perfectly straight-perfectly elegant and poised.  
Isabelle swallowed, "I don't know…"  
Mycroft scoffed, "Well perhaps you _should."_

With that, he turned around and left.

* * *

Isabelle stayed in his room for hours after that, wondering how she could have better handled that conversation/argument/accusation. She had been rather harsh, but she did mean it-she knew she did. The way he treated her like some sort of toy he could play with for a little while and then drop like a sack of potatoes whenever he felt like it. But did she even mean that? It was hardly that cruel.  
Silently Isabelle exited his room, taking in the dark hallway. She briefly considered going downstairs to see if he was in the kitchen, but decided against it in the end. Following her sudden instinct she made her way to Mycroft's office and went through.  
Isabelle took in the sight of his office, with everything where it should be. Her hazel eyes rested on Mycroft Holmes, asleep in his office chair. His head back and his mouth open a small fraction, allowing a low purring sort of snore to escape. With most people Isabelle hated the sound of snoring, but with him it was …soothing.  
Carefully she padded further into the room; her hand found its way to his hair which she delicately stroked. Were he awake, he would have blushed bright red at the contact.

She loved him. So much. The infuriating genius with no social skills (and yet _all_ the social skills when he decided to have them).  
He did a lot for her, sacrificed his pride to go to picnics with her, came to her rescue when Maria and Gloria had hurt her, helping her find a career that she could take pride in, and overcame his discomfort for physical contact to be closer to her.  
He protected her, and he cared for her. She knew now there was no going around it, he did care. It was just the way he handled it all, as though she couldn't be bothered to worry about him that hurt.  
And the way he would sometimes go into some sort of lecture, as though she needed everything to be explained.

Biting her bottom lip she removed her hand and silently moved over to a cupboard filled with odd alcoholic drinks that she couldn't identify.  
With ease she opened it and poured a small amount of something brownish into a glass cup. It filled the bottom but went no further, Isabelle truly detested drinking. Or at least, getting drunk and being around drunks.  
Mycroft had told her that he never drank to excess; he saw little point in it. It was like an icebreaker to him rather than a coping method. He'd also gone on to say that he'd only gotten drunk twice in his life-and he didn't wish to ever do it again.

Isabelle sipped at the liquid, blinking as it burned its way down her throat. Yep, definitely not her thing. But still she finished it, running her tongue along her teeth. Her petit nose wrinkled at the odor which filled her nose.  
She set aside the glass then turned back one last time to her boyfriend.  
Tomorrow she would try to sort things out. She… she couldn't bare the idea of leaving him after all that they'd gone through.

Or-or at least, she would figure out why he hadn't called.

* * *

**I've been waiting to write this for…forever! And it turned out to be as easy to write as I imagined it. The only thing I'm not quite happy about is how short the bedroom "argument" thing lasted. I feel like there's more to put in there I just…don't know what!  
Next chapter coming soon, hope you liked this one- Please review, it feels soooo good to get reviews! **

**"Impegno"**

**In which we get Mycroft's POV again, and Isabelle learns of just what he thinks of her.**


	24. Chapter 23- Impegno (Part 2)

**Impegno-**

Mycroft found it rather jarring to wake up in his office chair. Sure he collected himself quite nicely, but the odd feeling of suddenly rolling backwards when half asleep was definitely not one he'd come across all that often and rather didn't want to experience again.  
The light of morning was immediately in his eyes as soon as he sat forwards, forcing him to stand up to get away from it.  
His back and neck ached from the previous position but he deigned to ignore it for a more important thought which hits him like a bulldozer striking him at full speed.

_Isabelle._

He admitted to a little bit of guilt on that front. He had been so focused on what he had planned that he hadn't thought about her anger until she had left. He had stupidly thought to position her for optimum "The moment" only realizing later that it wasn't one of his most brilliant plans.  
He had had every intention of making it better, if not really having anything behind the apology other than wanting to make her _calm down._  
But then she went on a tirade…and called him a goldfish. He really didn't like being called a goldfish.  
And it had been his turn to storm out, though his was less childishly done.

He'd gone into his office and waited, thinking long and hard about what had just happened. He considered all that he'd gone through in the last three weeks, and the decision he had come to.  
He "liked" Isabelle, he enjoyed being around her, he wanted to protect her. And the last part was probably his biggest problem, but not something he could ever change. Protecting others was imbedded in his psyche too deeply.  
It struck him that there was a certain devotion to his relationship with Isabelle. Neither side considered another partner, nor considered ever leaving (at least, he thought so, Isabelle certainly hadn't left yet!), and each would go to great lengths to defend the other.  
Besides all of that, Isabelle brought comfort. At any rate, she knew how to lighten his mood, how to comfort him when he'd had a bad day or when human interaction was too much.

He remembered their first Christmas together; Isabelle had gone crazy trying to make the Holiday perfect for him only to be met by cold hard rejection towards the whole thing.  
On the day she left him alone until late at night, she had joined him in front of the fireplace and hugged him.

"_After my mother… w-we just stopped celebrating Christmas. No presents, no cookies nothing. Maria and Gloria would just leave, and not come back to the day after. I-I hated to think you spent every Christmas alone, so I sort of overreacted," _she had smiled softly at him, sitting beside him and resting her head for the first time against his shoulder. He had stiffened considerably against her touch but she didn't seem to either notice or care, "_I don't want you to spend Christmas alone. I don't care if we share presents or anything just…let me be with you, ok?"_

* * *

Mycroft (after having changed into a clean suit) made his way downstairs, turning towards the kitchen to prepare breakfast as he always did. To his surprise, Isabelle was leaning against the counter. She usually wasn't up at this hour, but had clearly been plagued by some form of insomnia going by the darkness beneath her eyes. They were red rimmed as well, which could have been due to crying or lack of sleep-with all likeliness of it being both.  
Mycroft had the sense to clear his throat lightly so as not to startle her.  
It did anyways.  
She spun around, her long brown hair which had been restricted into a sloppy braid (clearly done without anyone's help) swung around with her and landed heavily on her back.  
Mycroft moved further into the room, "Good morning," he greeted as pleasantly as he could.  
"Morning," she mumbled, looking at her feet. She quite quickly turned towards the counter to grab a mug of something steaming and she held it out to him as some sort of weird peace offering, "I made you uh, hot chocolate if you want it," she mumbled.

He accepted the cup, barely noticing as the heat burned his palm. She seemed to be waiting for something, so he raised the mug to his lips and sipped at it.  
It was really hot, and tasted more of water than chocolate, but he smiled nonetheless. Isabelle seemed to relax a little, which made Mycroft's guilt rise.

"Isabelle," he began, raising a hand before she could interrupt him, "I'm sorry."  
Her brow furrowed, "I think I can top your sorry-ness," she half-joked, "I'm sorry I called you a goldfish and said that you thought I was like a trained ape."  
He sipped at the scalding liquid before he set it aside, heaving a low sigh. He knew what he had to, and what he desperately wanted to do. But he still felt hurt, and guilty, and any litany of horribly inconvenient emotions that he didn't want in the least.  
"I do not in the slightest bit think of you as a trained ape," he commented wryly, wondering what to do with his hands which were devoid of umbrella or mug to toy with.

"Did you think of me at all?"

Mycroft forced himself not to bite the inside of his mouth as he questioned how he was going to answer this. The simplest was_, "Yes of course I did-stupid_" but thought that a little too childish to reply with. Instead he put on an assuring expression and stepped towards her, "Yes, I did."  
She ran a hand across the top of her head, "And yet you didn't call."  
There was an accusation in that and he knew it, she was challenging him. He swallowed thickly, "No, I did not."  
"And you didn't answer the phone when I called you," she added sharply.  
Mycroft huffed, "No, I did not," he repeated, "I was busy. My Dear you need to understand my job..._what I do_, comes first and it always will." he found a certain insistence behind those words. He had been working for the government way before Isabelle came along. It was his life, the one career that made him even close to happy and fulfilled. He couldn't just shove it aside for a conversation with his girlfriend!  
To his surprise, she nodded, "I know. But you co-_should_ have called though, just to let me know you were alive. You could have at least let me know that you were going to be a couple weeks late. I seriously thought you were dead for a while," the accusation left her voice; it fell more into sadness and resignation.  
"Yes, I should have," Mycroft finally conceded softly, which turned up the corners of her mouth again in a more pleasant way, "and that is why I am apologizing."  
She bit her bottom lip rubbing at her pale freckled arm with one hand, he saw her swallow, "You're forgiven I uh…I guess," she said weakly.

She guessed hm? He knew she was still coming off what she deemed some sort of betrayal on his part. But still!  
With face blank Mycroft moved to the sink and stared out the window at his lawn, "I thought of you quite a lot actually My Dear," he said, running rather frighteningly on auto-pilot, "And I came to a conclusion about… _us_ I suppose."  
With ease Mycroft reached into his pocket and retrieved what he needed, and had bought only three days into the first week of his "trip".  
His long thin fingers circled the item before he finally placed it on the counter beside him. The little box sat pristinely and seemingly untouched by the world.

Mycroft heard her gasp.

As it turned out there didn't need to be any specific place, nor specific position for "The moment" to happen. He turned around and saw Isabelle with her hands over her mouth, eyes already watery. He gestured vaguely towards the box and Isabelle moved forwards to collect it, opening it with shaking hands.  
The ring was nothing special, just a golden band with a tiny leaf design on one section of the outside. Isabelle held it as though it was made of glass, "Oh…oh, oh, oooh," she whispered alongside a few other things that Mycroft couldn't understand (though he thought he might have heard "not a trained ape" which he found highly amusing).  
For a moment he considered getting down on one knee to encapsulate the entire proposing experience, but decided against it considering the ring was in her hands.

"I know that I could live on my own and be perfectly happy. I am accustomed to solitude," he finally spoke, Isabelle was smiling the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen her wear, "But if I am to be…not alone. I wholeheartedly want to be _not alone_ with you," he smiled offhandedly, silently cursing his choice of wording. Isabelle lurched forwards quite suddenly and wrapped her arms around him, desperately clinging to him so tightly he thought his ribs might shatter.  
"Did you work on that speech all night?" she laughed into his shoulder, "…I-I really want to be not alone with you too."

She'd said yes!

Mycroft dug his fingers into her hair, softly offering a kiss which she accepted. Her hands moved to his sides which made him shudder internally-touch still wasn't his thing, but with Isabelle it felt...good. The two found themselves standing with foreheads pressed together in the middle of an otherwise empty kitchen. The ring had been slipped over Isabelle's finger-fitting perfectly of course.  
He'd never thought this would happen, his entire life he'd been entirely uncaring towards relationships of any kind. Sure he'd experimented with it, but still never understood the whole thing. Certainly there was that part of him that hated the idea of a relationship if only for the sake of protecting himself. Because people were unreliable.  
Isabelle was different, odd, devoted, someone who had been through so much yet still cared for others endlessly.  
Their hands twined together. She wasn't stupid, there was a difference between being less intelligent than he was and being stupid. Isabelle understood too much to be stupid.

He didn't bother to track how long they had remained in that position, every so often one of them moving to kiss the other. Isabelle closed her eyes, suddenly releasing his hands and pulling him into a hug again as though she couldn't bear to stop touching him. Her lips met his jawline and neck, then his mouth. He breathed in the scent of Isabelle Long-soon to be Holmes. Her mouth tasted vaguely like chocolate (she probably put more powder into her drink than his) and toothpaste.  
Isabelle had once commented that he smelled like peppermint and bleach, and that she liked that. Bemused, Mycroft had smiled through the oddness of that statement.  
Her tongue traveled into his mouth briefly and then she finally removed herself from his arms. Her gaze lowered to the ring circling her thin finger. She sighed contentedly, "I dreamed of this happening- not exactly with you at first but… I always hoped that I might find someone I loved enough to marry. God, how did this happen?" a tear ran down her cheek.  
Mycroft took her hand and his and ran his thumb down to her wrist.

"I believe I ordered a muffin."

* * *

**According to Google Translate, Impegno means "Commitment" in Italian. And I went with Italian because that's what I used for "Sullen" (A fic I'm sure you've already read).  
Anyways, finally! I'm sure you've been waiting for this sort of thing to happen, and it only took some twenty three chapters! ;)  
I'm not sure if I'll ever be satisfied with this, but I think it fits alright. **

**Oh yeah, I wanted to mention that I'm going to put this story on AO3 at some point, which means that I'm going back and trying to edit this story (even though I'm not finished with it). So if you want to read from the beginning, soon it shall be slightly less cruddy or…at least have less typos Lol  
(My account is called Cimerone Btw, though I only have two of my stories up)**

**"Family-and growing up"**

**In which there isn't much Mycroft (sadly) but Isabelle confronts her sisters after two years…and invites them to the wedding.**

**-Please Review! ;D**


	25. Chapter 24- Family, and growing up

**Family and growing up-**

After the conclusion of her father's proposal Lillian had forced herself to sleep. The complete gooeyness injected into those diary pages was enough to make her gag, and yet she did find a certain amount of relief surrounding her too as soon as Isabelle described what was in the box.  
She wasn't sure why she felt so relieved, considering she knew her parents had married before she was born-there wasn't any doubt in her mind that it would happen.

The next morning she started her routine, pulling on a t-shirt and a short skirt that stopped just above her knees.  
Lily eventually found herself sitting upon the bed, contemplating the relationship she seemed to have suddenly formed with her deceased mother. Knowing what she was like…  
Silently she shook her head, shoving away the dreaded sentiment her father always bemoaned whenever he did something for his children-though he always smiled while doing it.  
She took the book off the nightstand and let it rest, spine down, in her palm. It slid open revealing a page (which had clearly been chewed on by the rat) detailing the following days.

She couldn't stop herself from reading further if she tried.

* * *

The next day Isabelle went into work feeling euphoric, and upon seeing Madelyn Ross her first reaction was to (quite frankly) shriek, "I'm getting married, I'm getting MARRIED!"

Madelyn's eyebrows rose, "I take it Mycroft came back."  
Isabelle sent out her hand, waggling her fingers and allowing Madelyn to examine the ring. She was quickly congratulated and then told to get to work because there was still no meeting with Katlin Donohue.

Isabelle watched her boss leave for her office and smiled. She needed to invite Mrs. Ross to the wedding whenever it was to happen. Which (in between calls) sent her spiraling into the twisty tunnel of "Who else would she invite?" and "would anyone care in the slightest?"  
She had little to no family, very few friends, and the same seemed to stand for Mycroft (well, except maybe the family she really had no idea). The only people she was certain she would invite were people from work!  
Curling her hand into a fist beneath the desk Isabelle thought hastily about her sisters. It wasn't pleasant, imagining her wedding day with Maria on her right telling her she looked like some sort of sickly creature beneath the white dress, and Gloria on her left with a pair of scissors ready to slice uneven hunks of her hair to finish the picture.  
And in truth she knew this was unrealistic, but still painful and frightening.

The thing was though…despite this, they were family. And if there was one thing Isabelle abided by, it was family.

* * *

"I'm going home today."

Isabelle rested with her back pressed against the refrigerator, a dishtowel held tightly in her fist and her arms crossed across the lower part of her ribs. Mycroft was washing dishes, every so often giving a plate or pan for Isabelle to dry.  
"You _are _home," Mycroft commented lazily, scrubbing at a collection of burnt brownie Isabelle had accidently seared to the bottom of a pan.  
"Oh, no I mean…my old home," Isabelle cleared her throat uncomfortably. Mycroft released his hold on the pan, letting it sit halfway in the soapy water. His hands came free, fingers slightly prune-y.  
Isabelle saw the slightest touch of alarm cross his features, and she found herself hastily reiterating the whole thing, "I'm going to visit my sisters!"  
He relaxed, "And why would you want to do that?"

There was definitely bitterness in his voice, which made Isabelle smile. He well and truly hated them now for the way they treated her, having someone upset on her behalf was something she'd never really experienced before.  
"I was going to invite them to the wedding," she said, handing the dishtowel to her fiancé.  
Mycroft frowned, "Again I dare to ask-why?" he scoffed, wiping at his hands.  
Isabelle raised her eyebrows, "Because they're my sisters, you're inviting Sherlock to the wedding aren't you?"  
Mycroft snorted, "That's hardly the same. Sherlock hasn't _abused_ me."  
Isabelle fought back the urge to comment on the general way his brother treated him, but decided it wasn't the same. Sherlock was cruel, but not in a way that was truly on purpose. In most cases what upset Mycroft the most was the things his little brother did to _himself. _Those were the things that led to sleepless nights and general all-purpose stress which had frightened Isabelle on one occasion -it had taken hours to actually get out of him what the problem was, which led to an overly long hug that he eventually reciprocated.

Pursing her lips Isabelle tried to come up with a solid argument as to why she should invite Maria and Gloria, finally ending in, "I guess I need closure."  
His eyebrows raised, "Closure?"  
She tried to stand tall beneath Mycroft's scrutiny but was having a hard time of it, "I-I-I guess I want to see if they feel sorry for what they did to me," she felt her face and neck burn.  
Her fiancé hummed softly, "And if they aren't?

Isabelle closed her eyes, brow furrowed, "I don't know."

* * *

Isabelle stopped her car near her old building, sucking in a calming breath through clenched teeth. She felt jittery and frightened. Her hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles looked as though they might break through her skin. With that unpleasant thought the young woman unbuckled herself and climbed free of the vehicle. She ran a hand across the large twisted bun Mycroft had done for her, letting the weight against her neck soothe her. When she'd requested it from him, she knew what he was thinking-that she wanted her hair safely tucked away from the dreaded scissors they always kept in the top left kitchen drawer. She hadn't denied it, but still gave him a cold stare.

Silently she made her way through the door and up the stairs, eventually arriving at her old door. She bit her bottom lip hard before finally putting her finger to the small round button. She almost buzzed three times just for the sake of it, but stopped after two.  
There was a moment where Isabelle considered that they might not be home, maybe their schedule had changed. But no, the door clicked and then opened revealing Gloria.  
She looked exactly the same, except she'd gotten her ears pierced. She had a bit of a tan too, surrounded by her usual well styled mud brown hair.  
Something stirred inside the youngest sister making her throat clog with relief. Before Gloria could say anything she was swallowed into a hug, Isabelle's long arms desperately tightening around her sister's shoulders. The hug slightly awkward on one side, but Isabelle ignored it.

"What're you- Isabelle?"

Maria entered the room next, her blonde hair grown out a bit more since their last encounter. Her freckled face looked pinched when she took in Isabelle, who quickly released Gloria to hug the next sibling.  
She could feel tears forming already, not a great start.  
She blinked hastily, composing herself. If she was going to cry, it wouldn't be this early! Carefully the young woman removed herself from Maria's arms (the girl had attempted to hug back, unlike Gloria) and crossed her arms defensively.

"Izzy…what are you doing here?" Maria questioned, light eyebrows lowering over her deep blue eyes.  
Isabelle smiled faintly despite the nickname, "I uh, I wanted to visit and say hi-"  
Gloria scoffed, "Right, after what, two years, you decided to just pop in and say a quick hello?"  
Maria snorted, "Right," she concluded uselessly.  
Frowning, the youngest of them unfolded her arms and found herself putting her hands on her thin hips, "I know right, why would I ever want to visit _you?_" she snarled. Silently she cursed herself for using the same scathing tone as her sisters used on her. The look on both faces was not a happy one, something Isabelle used to fear meant being left in her room or on one occasion-locked out of the building.  
"Sorry," she apologized quickly then extended her hand for them to see.  
Gloria stared at the ring with sudden awareness, "Oh I see, you're married to the albatross."

_Oh for god's sake!_

"He's not an albatross!" Isabelle objected, and then absently thought _he's a crane_ quite amusingly, "And we're not married yet, he proposed three days ago."  
Maria scrutinized the small golden band with narrowed brown eyes, "Is that it? I thought he was rich."  
"Yes this is it, he was…abroad," she cleared her throat, "when he saw an old shop, he said he found this and immediately knew to buy it," she smiled brightly at her sisters.  
Gloria looked completely unimpressed by the truly soppy rendition of Mycroft's adventures in "who knows where". Maria was interested, but hardly because she thought they made a good couple.

"And you're going through with this, to what... finish off your little rebellion?" Gloria finally snapped, breaking the silence which had fallen through the flat.  
Isabelle felt rather choked, "Th-that wasn't rebellion…that was escape!" she replied, pulling her hand back to her side.  
Maria snorted, "Oh yes, because we treated you like our pet-isn't that what that freak said?"  
"As if he knew anything about us!" Gloria concluded.  
Isabelle bit the inside of her mouth hard enough to make her wince, unsure which direction to take. Defend her future husband or defend herself.  
"He wasn't wrong was he?" she demanded, "I don't think a day went by that-that I didn't feel unwelcome in my own home!"  
"Your own home? Shit Isabelle, you may have paid your part of the rent but this was hardly your home!" Gloria snarled.

"Oh I know, you made sure of that!"

Isabelle tried to quiet her voice, uncomfortable with yelling. Her sisters were fuming, though a little out of place. Even after all that time without her, they still expected her to be yelled at, for her not to fight back. But now she was, and she was going to say her mind!

Maria's voice was suddenly added to the argument, "You keep doing this, making us the villains! Like you're Cinderella and we're the ugly step-sisters! We had lives before mum died and left you to us to watch over!"  
"Yeah, we had to deal with losing our mother and raising a freaking crybaby with nothing better to do than whine about how bad her life was!"  
"I lost my mother too!" Isabelle shouted, tears coming to her eyes again. This wasn't going how she wanted it to at all!  
"Oh shut up Izzy, my god you're like a walking cliché!" Gloria hissed, her usually pale face got a bit red now, "You may have lost mum too but you didn't have to deal with keeping the flat, and feeding yourself and your stupid little sister. You didn't have to deal with…with losing someone and having to go to work pretending everything was fine!"

Isabelle was crying really hard now, Maria was too, Gloria wasn't. She floundered a few times on what to say, trying to force her voice past the blockage in her throat.  
"I'm sorry if I-I-I made you out to be the ugly step-sisters b-but," she wiped at her eyes desperately, "The way you dealt with all of this… the way you dealt with me. I was fifteen years old! A-and I was given no time to grieve over mum's death before I was suddenly barraged by your insults and-and I was made to think I was a worthless piece of filth. The way you treated every day as another way to ignore me, or hurt me with all that stuff about being an accident and how I was too stupid to pass the driver's test, how I was too clingy and too _Isabelle_ to keep a boyfriend or get a better job than at that stupid café!

"Well you know what? I passed the test the first try, I got a job working for the government and am doing a perfectly wonderful job at it, and I have a fiancé who is the most brilliant man I've ever meant-so there!"

Silence.

Isabelle let out a long, slow, breath. She wiped at her nose with her sleeve (an action Mycroft would have been truly disgusted by) before she spoke again, her voice barely a whisper, "D-do you remember Roger Ellingham?"  
"That guy you dated?" Maria asked, her voice about the same level.  
Isabelle nodded, "I thought I loved him, I really did. I spent practically every day with him, he made me laugh and I thought I made him laugh too though for the life of me…I can't remember a single moment of it. Then one day, he left. He didn't say anything to me about it, he just left town and I lost it, I thought he must have died or something," she smiled faintly, "Two months later… he came back, and told me that I was too clingy and that we weren't seeing each other anymore."  
Gloria ran a hand through her dark hair, "Yeah, I remember it. What of it?"  
"You said that I deserved it, that I was too Isabelle to keep a guy as gorgeous and perfect as Roger Ellingham."  
Maria frowned at her, "Where are you going with this?"

Isabelle made her way to the door, not looking back as she spoke, "The point is, Mycroft and I have been going out for three years now. We broke up twice, each time we came back because we couldn't' stand being separated like that… This is the real thing, and _I am_ too Isabelle for this… But he doesn't in the slightest bit mind."  
She finally turned around and smiled, "I hope you're coming to the wedding, I'll send some invitations if you want to come. I hope you will."

* * *

Isabelle returned home and was immediately greeted with a hug from Mycroft, whether he saw the upset on her face or whether he knew just out of instinct how the interaction had gone, he allowed her to bury her face into his shoulder.

"Did you get closure My Dear?" he finally asked.  
Isabelle allowed him to step away so that she could look into his stormy gray eyes, "You know what…" she said, "I think I did."

* * *

**What'did'ja think?  
I contemplated both Maria and Gloria apologizing, and I had a few other points I was going to put into the argument. But it naturally went this way, and I decided not to mess with it.  
I realized quite early on what a cliché the two sisters being terrible to the youngest was, so I mentioned it in the argument. I tried my best to make both sisters slightly redeemable, because they aren't absolutely terrible people. They're only slightly terrible. Lol  
I also wanted to make it clear that Isabelle isn't really under control of them anymore; she has mostly grown out of the abuse, and has found her place in life.  
And I sound very cheesy I know, but I can't help it! I'm full of cheese, literally and figuratively.  
**

**For those of you looking for something less emotional, check out my new fic "Letters" lol**

**"Wedding"**

**In which Isabelle and Mycroft get married, but not without some cold feet and an annoying brother added to the mix. **


	26. Chapter 25- Wedding

**Prepare for sap, saccharinely sweet sap is inbound people!**

**You have been warned! ;)**

* * *

**Wedding-**

At breakfast Lillian was offered eggs and toast which she ate quickly, earning herself a glare from her uptight brother. Her father didn't seem too much care at this point whether she had good manners at the table, as long as she ate three meals a day he was satisfied with how he'd raised her. Of course in every other department he was completely neurotic about tidiness.  
Lily swallowed her last gulp of orange juice, moved to the end of the table to receive a kiss on the top of her head from her father and a short lecture from Alistair about not putting off her maths homework. She then made her way outside, sitting down upon a bench to briefly admire the scenery before opening the diary once again. She could tell it was coming to an end, and that sort of frightened her. Probably more at the speed in which she'd consumed it rather than fear of losing her mother. Or at least, that's what she told herself.

She fingered the page, the words written even sloppier than usual with no sketches just tight script going in length about… Their marriage. Lillian swallowed a lump in her throat, and began reading.

* * *

"Oh Isabelle, you look lovely!"

Isabelle squeaked and turned to Mrs. Ross, absent-mindedly trying to smooth the pale white fabric of her Wedding Dress. Maria at her said something that shan't be repeated when her subject stepped away from having her eyeshadow done.  
"You came," Isabelle grinned at her boss, lacing her fingers together in front of her.  
Madelyn scoffed, "Of course I came," she seemed to assure the younger woman, "I can't have my Private Assistant mad at me just because I didn't want to get dressed up," she winked.  
Isabelle's grin widened, "Thanks," she said, allowing Maria to roughly pull her back.  
"If you keep moving you're going to look like a homeless person or something," the blonde-headed twin huffed.  
"You mean she doesn't already?" Gloria snorted from her plastic chair in the corner, turning the page of her bridal magazine a little too aggressively.

Isabelle snorted to herself- at least they came. Besides, their insults didn't really hurt anymore, not really. She closed her eyes, feeling the smooth swipes of the eyeshadow brush against her eyelids. They'd already applied some mascara, earning her a few too many accidental jabs in the eye for not holding still. She couldn't help it! She was excited. One doesn't get married to Mycroft Holmes every day you know!  
"How do you feel dear?" Madelyn asked from somewhere in the room.  
"Good…" the young woman replied softly, "To tell the truth, I'm both really excited and utterly terrified," she attempted to laugh but it sounded too forced to her own ears.  
Madelyn smiled good naturedly, "That sounds about right."  
Gloria forcefully took Isabelle by the arm and brought her to a mirror, "Happy?" she questioned, crossing her pale freckled arms.

Isabelle stared at herself in the tall standing mirror and her mouth nearly fell open. Despite her trepidation at allowing her siblings to help her with her makeup, they'd done an excellent job. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover crimson shaded lips, holding back a cry of glee.  
Her dress was soft and smooth, fitting against her curve-less frame until the knee where it flowered out but not to any excess. The straps of the dress sat low on her shoulders; the top of the dress was shaped rather like a heart against her chest.  
Besides that, her long hair had been styled (professionally, she hadn't allowed her sisters to do anything regarding her hair) so that it was glossy and smooth, a handful of it rolling over her shoulder in elegant waves. A golden flower clip had been clipped on the left side keeping half of her hair out of her face. A veil draped over the back of her head ending at her shoulder blades. The entire ensemble seemed to soften her pointed features, the makeup defining her thin lips, small nose, and hazel eyes.

"Happy," the young bride finally replied, blinking back tears. It was amazing how it had all come together to create…this. She was…beautiful….Pretty….Pretty beautiful. There was always a mixture of words that made her feel like she wasn't lying to herself.  
Her hand finally dropped to her side, pinching her thigh between her thumb and forefinger.  
"Like I said, lovely," Madelyn smirked then frowned at the silver watch circling her thick wrist, "I'd better find a seat before they're all taken. Good luck Miss Long," she winked, then departed, passing a lean figure with curly hair and cheekbones to die for.  
"Sherlock!"

Isabelle carefully dabbed at the corners of her eyes to remove the wetness and also to avoid smearing her mascara (she really didn't want to go through the ordeal of putting more on).  
"Isabelle," the pale man rumbled, his blue eyes taking in the small room and eventually falling upon his future Sister in Law.  
"HI!" Maria suddenly yelped, brown eyes wide as she extended her hand to Sherlock, "I'm uh- I'm Isabelle's sister Maria!"  
Sherlock's upper lip curled disdainfully but he allowed her small hand to be practically consumed by his in a very short lived handshake.  
"Gloria," the other sister said, narrowing her eyes at the detective as though there was something she didn't quite trust. Isabelle couldn't help but _snrk _as Sherlock allowed yet another person to shake his hand with his eyes narrowed in return.

Isabelle could see his lips part to say something and for the briefest most frightening moment she thought he was going to make deductions about her siblings. The last thing she wanted was for them to be upset and leave right before the wedding! Instead he wrinkled his nose and said, "Is this…_thing_ going to start soon?"  
Isabelle raised an eyebrow at him, "Can't wait can you?" she asked playfully. Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly, I stand by the old adage- the sooner it starts the sooner it ends," the corners of his eyes crinkled as he forced an overly large smile.  
Isabelle giggled, and then grabbed her watch which had been discarded nearly an hour ago in exchange for a thin gold bracelet.  
"About ten minutes," she breathed, her heart suddenly pounding an hurried rhythm in her chest. She replaced the watch and turned back to Sherlock, "It's going to be a quick ceremony," she said after a pause, "less people walking down the aisle."  
Two pairs of dark brown eyes turned on her, "And what is that supposed to mean?" Gloria demanded sharply. Isabelle swallowed, "You know I didn't mean… I didn't mean dad," she said, brow furrowing, "I just meant that I don't have any bridesmaids or flower girls."  
"Shit Isabelle, why can't this be a normal wedding?" Maria huffed, running a hand through her short golden hair.  
Gloria smirked crookedly before gesturing for her twin to follow her-the both of them leaving for their place in the one of the pews.

"Well," Sherlock commented dully, "your family is…delightful."  
"Shut up," Isabelle replied, trying not to smile too hard at the man's sarcasm. She allowed herself to perch on the edge of the plastic chair, folding her hands together on her lap. She scrutinized her TARDIS blue nails, "I forgot to say, you look rather dashing," she said without looking up. She could sense Sherlock standing taller at that statement, "Mycroft picked it out. Then as he gave it to me- swore upon our Grandmother's grave that if I didn't wear it he would dismember me. Of course he knows how to fight, but I doubt he could manage to catch me without the help of his minions."  
Isabelle chuckled, "Oh God, thank you for wearing it!"  
"You're welcome," the raven haired detective replied, suddenly urged to send pale fingers through his dark curly hair. Isabelle wondered if he spent much time on that, or if he woke up with the _perfect style_.

"I'd best be off," said after a rather lengthy pause, "as much as I'd love to miss this, I can't pass up the opportunity to see Mycroft show his emotional side," he seemed to choke on the word "emotional" much as Mycroft would often do on the word "friends" as though it was disgusting to them. Isabelle stood up and found herself pulling her soon-to-be brother in law into her arms. Sherlock stood stiff beneath her, reminding her again of Mycroft and how he used to accept that sort of embrace like a teenager being forced into a hug with his mum.  
Sherlock stepped back and allowed a sort of half bow before he exited, but not without uttering a smooth, "Good luck Isabelle," before he left.

She was alone, in a small room, trying very hard not to sweat all over her nice new wedding dress. She fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist, forcing herself to remember how excited she had been not five minutes ago. It wasn't as though she was nervous about committing to Mycroft, to tell the truth she'd waited a very long time for it- longed for it really. The idea of being Mrs. Isabelle Holmes felt like finding her place in the world- finally. Of course her job gave her nearly the same feeling, but it wasn't the same.  
No, the problem was probably the whole ceremony in general. Thousands of things could go wrong, people could object, _Mycroft could change his mind…_  
"No," she dug her fingernails into her palm, "no, I need to trust him," she told herself firmly. She bit down on her bottom lip and trying to control the sudden jolt of panic which had run through her.

"That is a horrible habit My Dear, and not one which should be practiced when one is wearing lipstick.

She blinked at the sudden tall shape in the doorway, wondering how she hadn't noticed it opening. Instead of commenting on it she stepped back, "Myc! You're not supposed to see me before the wedding starts!"  
He raised an eyebrow, "I saw you this morning- I cooked you breakfast."  
"That's beside the point, it's so the bride gets The Moment, you know when the groom sees his future wife in her pretty dress and his expression goes all…happy," she shrugged.  
Mycroft hummed, "I thought The Moment was when the man proposes and the woman lights up at the sight of the ring."  
"There's a The Moment for both sides than," Isabelle chuckled, "But seriously Myc, what are you doing here?"

Mycroft moved further into the room, shutting the door behind him. Isabelle got full view of his charcoal black suit, buttoned over a gray vest, blue tie, and white button up shirt with starched collar. It fit him so perfectly, all rounded edges and dark colors. Isabelle had thought she'd seen Mycroft in every suit imaginable but this one… despite herself she made a soft purring sound in the back of her throat-and then felt immediately ridiculous for having done so.  
"I thought I'd see how you were fairing, I know how the idea of social interaction makes you nervous," he smiled softly. Isabelle extended her hand and took his, twining long pale fingers.  
"So you're just nervous about people watching you get married?" she asked, enjoying the careful way he brushed his thumb across her knuckle.  
"I do have a few rather minuscule concerns concerning the upcoming ceremony, they of course shall be promptly ignored," he breathed.  
Isabelle felt a sudden gathering of hot tears in her eyes, "Yeah, same."  
"To be truthful," Mycroft seemed to admit, "I thought I might seek assurance that you weren't going to-"Leave?" Isabelle cut him off sharply, knowing full well the hypocrisy of being upset by that statement.

His fingers removed from hers, "It's ridiculous, I acknowledge that. You have been nothing if not faithful, devoted, and trusting towards me."  
Isabelle nodded, "And so have you, you never considered another woman, and I never doubted that you-" she stopped herself. The way his lips pressed together she knew he had guessed at what she had planned to say next. That he loved her, which he most certainly did and there was no point in denying! She took a sudden solace in this. _He loved he_r. He probably would never say those words, nor ever truly understand what it meant but he did.

She wasn't much scared anymore.

"Things are going to start in like, three minutes. You should probably go wait for me," Isabelle said softly, placing her hand on his arm and squeezing briefly as though to remind herself that all of this was real. Mycroft nodded, seemingly put at ease- probably having come come to the same conclusion that his future spouse was most certainly going through with this and was unabashedly in love with him.  
"I shall see you soon Isabelle," he said, making his way to the door.

"And I you."

* * *

_Walking down the aisle gave a sensation of sitting in front of a fireplace with a cup of hot cocoa in her hand. Contented._

_Standing next to her and uttering those dreaded words of sentiment and devotion was similar to finding out after so many years that he had somewhere he could belong in life without feeling like a outcast._

_Letting him slip on the ring, she felt her parents at her shoulder smiling proudly and silently crying. _

_Kissing her deeply in finalization of their union, he felt every moment alone where he allowed himself that moment of joy, sadness, anger…peace._

_Walking hand in hand to speak with the small crowd of friends and family, Mycroft and Isabelle Holmes felt as though they'd found their other halves._

_They were finally whole._

* * *

The reception was cozier than most, with people speaking in lone tones about either Government (Mycroft's side-excluding his parents and Sherlock) or what a beautiful ceremony it was (excluding Madelyn Ross who seemed contented to just listen).  
Mycroft allowed Linda and Christopher Holmes to embrace him, his mother chattering on about how wonderful everything was-and now that they were married he'd better give her grandchildren. This had been given both a tolerant smile, and then the rather sudden choking as wine seemed to stop in his throat. Isabelle had thumped him on the back a few times, informing her mother in law that there wouldn't be children if her son died first. This earned her a laugh, and then a moment of peace with her husband before the music started.

The soothing tones of a violin prompted the couple to join hands and dance in the middle of the room. Isabelle thinking nothing of where she stepped because Mycroft would adjust accordingly with his magical powers. Her hand rested in his, held like she would break into a million pieces if he squeezed to hard. His hand rested soothingly against the small of her back, pulling her towards him.  
Mycroft made a few comments about the ridiculousness of their "aw"s by the end of the dance, Isabelle smacked him playfully on the arm.  
Presents were given to be opened later, Mycroft deducing that most of them were dish towels and the one from Sherlock should be opened with tongs.

Cake was dispersed, people ate their fill, congratulated the couple about eighty more times.

And then they went home.

* * *

"All in all I'd say that went off without a hitch," Isabelle mumbled, half asleep already. Mycroft allowed her to rest against his shoulder, "I should say so, I wasn't sniped or poisoned, my parents only spoke to us for fifteen minutes and twenty three seconds, and Sherlock seemed rather…pleasant."

"He said we were going to have probably four children and grow old and fat together," Isabelle snorted, making her way up the stairs, "I promptly informed him that I planned on turning into a bony bird lady."  
"Hm, I look forward to it," Mycroft commented, running his hand down her side which made her giggle.

They entered their room, Isabelle breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla. She smiled to herself upon sighting her Kiki's Delivery Service poster taped crookedly to the wall, and General Stuffinton on the her dresser which had also been brought in.  
The two turned towards each other, "So… we're married," Isabelle said.  
"An amazing observation," Mycroft replied coyly.  
She pinched him which garnered a false look of hurt from him, "Already this marriage is off to a bad start," he deadpanned.  
Isabelle pressed her hand against his neck to pull him towards her, "Would you have it any other way?"

They joined in a passionate kiss, Isabelle pulling of his suit coat and vest before running her hands down his sides. Mycroft sent his fingers through her hair, the other reaching for the nigh invisible zipper on the back of her dress. She felt the heat of his body through their clothes, prompting her to shove him backwards onto the bed, falling on top of him soon after with both hands on either side of his shoulders. She bent low to bring him into another kiss, allowing everything to wash over her. Every laugh, every smile, and every intimate moment they'd ever shared.

She'd never been happier.

* * *

**Like I said, sappy. And I know sappy isn't Mycroft's department, but to tell the truth it's a stretch to put him in a relationship in the first place. At least, that's always been how I viewed him.  
Again I hope you like it; I didn't go back and edit this one so there might be a few typos. I tend to worry too much if I edit right before posting!**

**Also, no smut, I promised! Hopefully none of you were too frightened by the direction the ending took lol… Probably not. X)**

**"Conversations"**

**Mycroft goes off on another "Business trip" and decides to call…a lot. These are the conversations they had. (Thought I'd try something a little different)**

**-I know this note is too long already, but since I'm only about six chapters (give or take depending on whether inspiration strikes) away from the end, I thought I'd suggest something. I was thinking of either writing one or a bunch of little stories about different ways Mycroft and Isabelle could have met. To give you an idea, here are the ideas thus far:**

**1- Victorian era. (Isabelle gets a job cleaning Mycroft's lodgings, a string of events leads Mycroft to –at least try- to court her)  
****2- Redwall (Isabelle is a squirrel living at Redwall, Mycroft-a rat- and Sherlock- an otter- come seeking a place to stay. Isabelle has always lived by one rule: Never trust a rat)  
****3- Hogwarts (Isabelle-Hufflepuff- dislikes Mycroft-Slytherin- until she finds him late at night trying, and failing, to fly on his broom.)  
****4- Suicide (Isabelle finds Mycroft –who claims his name is Michael- on a roof about to commit suicide, she tries to talk him out of it)  
****5- Therapy (Group therapy, someone dies in Mycroft's office and he is suddenly forced to seek help. Isabelle is there too, in search of support after suffering some trauma.)  
****6- Ghost (Isabelle finds a strange ghost named Mycroft lurking around where he was murdered, waiting for his brother to solve the crime so he can move on)**

**Do any of these sound interesting? If not, I shall decide on my own what to do. ;)**


	27. Chapter 26- Conversations

"Hello?"

**"I'm not dead."**

"Myc, oh! Uh good, good to know!"

**"I do hope this isn't an inopportune time for me to have called."**

"No I was just making breakfast. Where are you?"

**"My hotel room."**

"Which is located in?"

**"I cannot say."**

"Then I'll guess. Canada? Yugoslavia? Serbia?"

**"...I can't speak Serbian."**

"You're changing the subject."

**"Am I?"**

"Yes, you are. Never mind. How are you? How was the flight?"

**"The flight was dull, I may or may not have made a pathetic whimpering sound when I looked out the window and saw the glorious great blue ocean. I feel perfectly well My Dear, and you?"**

"Oh God, sounds fun. I'm ok, I actually made brownies today! And I only burned the edges a little bit!"

**"Congratulations."**

"I'll pretend I didn't notice the sarcasm in your voice... Just for your information, my co-workers loved them."

**"Good for them."**

* * *

"I got a haircut today."

**"Oh?'**

"Yep. N-not short, just to my back. Kind of getting rid of those split ends y'know?"

**"Perfectly sensible. But you sound...upset."**

"I'm not upset, just... I don't know, I feel different. My head feels lighter. I still can't braid my own hair, but it's a bit easier to put it in a ponytail. I feel like something's changed but in reality, nothing has. Not really."

**"I imagine it stands as your decision to cut your own hair, rather than someone else deciding it for you. Were you forced into it? Of course not. And thus, you feel different."**

"... That sounds frighteningly accurate. I think I'm going to be sick."

**"And _that _is why I'm thousands of miles away."**

"Ha ha."

* * *

"Do you think I'll turn into a skinny old bird lady?"

**"Yes."**

"Myc."

**"Apologies My Dear. Of course you won't."**

"But I'm just so... bony. I can see it now, giant hands with doorknob knuckles and knobbier knees that keep knocking together. I'll have liver spots and big blue veins webbing my hands!"

**"And what is the problem with that? I see it as some sort of assurance that even in old age, while I keep getting bigger and you skinnier- because we know the former is inevitable... We shall be together, and none of this matters in the least... Besides, your nose is too small."**

"... I love you."

**"Yes, yes, My Dear. So you keep saying."**

* * *

"-and then I told Bennita that if she wanted to come to the wedding she should have asked. The look she gave me was worth way more than you could know."

**"..."**

"Am I boring you?"

**"Of course. Please go on."**

"I hate you."

**"No you don't."**

"No, I don't. Dang... Uh, wait. Why is Sherlock in our house?"

**"I really don't know, why don't you ask him."**

"_Sherlock why are you in our house? Oh my- i-is that a liver in a jar?"_

**"Oh for God's sake, my house should not suddenly become available for experiments just because I'm not home!"**

"_Mycroft says you need to leave or he'll send his men after you... Do you want to ask him? Sure... Oh I'm sorry, it's a pancreas how foolish of me.  
_Your brother is a weirdo."

**"You're just getting this now? Is he leaving?"**

"No, I gave him free reign of the guest room. Philomena Blackbeard is bunking with us er, me."

**"Delightful. I really will send my man after him now; you are too kind for your own good Isabelle."**

"Thank you."

**"That was not a compliment."**

"I know."

* * *

**"Mycroft Holmes."**

"Hi, I thought I'd try calling you for a change."

**"How innovative."**

"Just so you know, I've decided that you're sleeping in the guest room and I'll be staying in our room from now on."

**"Why, may I ask?"**

"Because there is no way I'm giving up half of that bed again!"

**"Again? My Dear, it is _my_ bed."**

"Not anymore it's not!"

**"I have the power to kill you."**

"And yet you won't, that's the best bit! But seriously, I uh... I miss you."

**"And I you."**

"I bet I miss you more. I actually miss having you in the same bed with me, and watching you get ready for the morning. I _seriously_ miss you making me breakfast and dinner. I keep burning the toast!... And I just miss you ok. So come back soon!"

**"... I will."**

"Good. You know what else I miss? Finding you walking on the treadmill."

**"Oh for- My Dear, I told you not to bring that up again. And it was one time."**

"Embarrassed?"

**"I am not embarrassed, I do not get embarrassed."**

"Then why did you turn the color of a beat when you saw me? You have nice legs Myc."

**"I hate you."**

"No you don't."

**"No. Quite the opposite in fact."**

"I love you too."

**"..."**

"Goodbye Mycroft."

**"Goodbye Isabelle."**

* * *

**I wrote this all in one sitting. It was more fun than it should have been. Although it is still short, but there are so many spaces we can pretend it isn't.**

***Forgot to put the spaces in between conversations. Doy.**

**Oh yeah, just wanted to thank you guys for reviewing, favoriting, and following! Your epicosity knows no bounds! X)**

**"A beginning"**

**In which Isabelle feels odd, and Mycroft makes a startling deduction. - Bit of a time skip. Sorry!**


	28. Chapter 27- A Beginning

**Just so's you know. I changed it so that the time jump comes "before" the phone conversations. And so this is like, a week or so after that chapter. K? Good. I'm bad at this. XP**

* * *

**A Beginning-**

Lily wrinkled her rather large nose, "Really mum?" she moaned, paging through what seemed to be endless amounts of phone conversation "tidbits".  
She barely looked up when her father exited the building; he spared her a glance and a half smile before adjusting his hold on the slim black briefcase, umbrella, and a slew of papers he was handling. Lily waved when Bastian Kirk pulled up in his car to collect her father. He waved back rather too enthusiastically for the young girl's taste but she merely smiled at him, lowering her hand to the pages of her mother's diary. Her short legs folded beneath her, one of her heels digging into her thigh.  
Lily heaved a sigh of relief when she came across blocks of text again.

There seemed to be an excess of smiley face sketches.

* * *

Isabelle wondered if she should apologize to Benitta Hollister for not inviting her to the wedding. She had taken great pleasure in messing with her secretly sworn enemy (but not really "sworn" enemy) but Benitta had been walking around the office in a sulk for about a week, which had prompted a few pointed looks from Madelyn who preferred her co-workers be courteous with each other or go home-because that would get the same amount of work done.  
Isabelle huffed before marching over to Benitta's desk.  
She apologized for joking about the missed invitation, and offered (alright, _she joked_) that she would invite her to her next wedding. Benitta smiled and seemed rather heartened by the offer- which made Isabelle frown at the younger and obviously much prettier woman.

In the end she clogged Benitta's printer with a Jammy Dodger while the blonde was busy flirting with William Phillips.

When she got home Mycroft was back from his trip and dinner was ready. She kissed him smoothly before sitting beside him, retrieving her fork and ultimately shoving her meat from one side of the plate to the other and back again. Mycroft ceased his chewing to stare at her with a furrowed brow, "Not hungry My Dear?" he questioned, taking a cup of water and washing down the remains of his most recent bite.  
Isabelle shook her head, "I dunno," she mumbled, resting her cheek against her closed fist. To tell the truth she felt a bit…sick. Sort of tired, maybe even a bit cramped, and she really didn't want what was on her plate for whatever reason.  
"_Dunno_, is not a word," Mycroft commented plainly, "_You don't know_. I could save that in the fridge if you would prefer not to eat it now," he gestured with his free hand to her full plate.  
Isabelle shrugged, feeling rather like an irate teenager.  
Mycroft silently stood up and took her plate and fork, moving to the kitchen to scrape the food into a proper container.

She sat in silence tapping her fingers against the table. Maybe she was sick, that would be just her luck. Not that she got sick that often, but the idea of staying home with a clogged nose and sore throat- or worse vomiting- seemed like the least enjoyable thing ever.  
Her husband returned and seated himself, "Perhaps you should take an early rest," he said, glancing up at her with surprisingly concerned gray eyes.  
She nodded, rubbing at one side of her face with a pale hand, "I probably should. But you just came back from _Not-Serbia_ and I was hoping to spend some time with you," she quirked her mouth into an attempted smile.  
Mycroft imperceptibly sighed and nudged his plate forwards, standing up again and placing both of his hands on Isabelle's hips. She wasn't sure how to feel about this, because he clearly wasn't all that invested in either kissing her or hugging her-or whatever his plan was.  
He pressed his forehead against hers, "I won't be going anywhere any time soon, if you prefer I can come to bed with you."  
Sometimes that sod knew exactly what to say, though Isabelle had to force herself not to find the sentence entirely suggestive (not that there was anything wrong with that at this point).  
"No, no I'm ok," she mumbled, pressing a kiss against his cool lips, "You should stay up and make sure Alistair eats and is properly ready for bed when he comes back from lessons."

Alistair.

It had been an odd addition, but a necessary one. Mycroft had discovered the boy about a month or so previous, an orphan with an extraordinary intellect. The two took an immediate shining to each other. Alistair looked up to Mycroft, and Mycroft in turn provided a mentor/father figure. Isabelle, Alistair wasn't…all that fond of. He was cordial (sometimes overly so) but clearly liked one parent more than the other. Still, Isabelle loved him enough to accept that he had a place in their home, and always would.

Mycroft nodded against her, "Very well," he replied, sliding his hands off of her hips and resting them at his sides.  
Isabelle smiled faintly, "Goodnight…Legs."  
"I will end this relationship right here and now if you ever call me that again."  
They smiled at each other, then Isabelle spun around and made her way towards the stairs, "We'll see," she replied, waving her hand casually back at him.

* * *

The next morning wasn't very good either. Isabelle woke up in the usual tangle of limbs, with Mycroft's arm draped over and his leg twined around hers. She took in a slow breath, trying to make her way through the sudden discomfort when she had attempted to sit up. It wasn't a terrible pain, more of an ache resembling that of her monthly cycle. Her eyes widened- of course!  
She carefully removed herself from Mycroft's unknowing embrace and moved to the bathroom, wherein she quickly checked for the obvious sign that her time of the month had arrived.  
Nothing.  
She pulled up her pajama bottoms and frowned to herself, running a hand halfway through her tangled hair. Alright, just cramped for no reason then… Great.  
Isabelle moved into the other room and dropped some food into Philomena's dish, trying very hard not to giggle when the rodent tickled her fingers with her twitching whiskers. She grabbed a long skirt and a warm sweater as well as the appropriate undergarments from the dresser beneath the rodent's cage and moved to the bathroom to shower.

As soon as she returned and began to brush her hair Mycroft stirred and blinked at her blearily, "Isabelle," he mumbled, stretching out his long limbs beneath the thick blanket covering him, "You're awake…before me," his eyebrows lowered over half closed eyes. He braced himself and then sat up, folding his hands in his lap.  
Isabelle rolled her eyes, "It happens sometimes," she commented, wincing when the brush caught a snag. Mycroft clicked his tongue at her, patting a spot on the bed in front of him. Isabelle smiled despite herself and landed on the bed, dropping the brush into her husband's waiting hands.  
Mycroft seemed to grow impatient earlier and earlier every time Isabelle dared to brush her hair in front of him, immediately taking it upon himself to help her by doing it the _right way_.

It was frightfully domestic, but Isabelle wasn't going to mention that for fear he would stop.  
"Are you feeling any better this morning?" he asked, though Isabelle was certain he already knew that she wasn't.  
"No," she mumbled, trying hard not to tilt her head back when he pulled through her now shortened locks, "I'm sure it's nothing, I probably pulled a muscle yesterday," she shrugged. She could sense a raised eyebrow and decided to elbow him in the rib, "Okay so maybe I didn't do anything strenuous yesterday, but you know what I mean. It could be anything!"  
"Violent today, aren't we," Mycroft commented, purposefully catching the brush in her hair and jerking her head backwards.  
"OW, you berk!" Isabelle twisted around and tackled him, forcing him to fall backwards on the bed. The brush fell out of his hand, quickly forgotten.  
Both of her hands sat on either side of his head, "See if I ever let you help me again," she mumbled, kissing him chastely. Mycroft ran a hand across her side, "I'm heartbroken," he spoke sarcastically, "Could you please get off me? Your hair is dripping," he smirked.  
She huffed, removing herself, "Romantic," she mumbled, stretching out her spine to no success.  
"I know," he replied smoothly, making his way to the closet to gather layer upon layer of clothing. Isabelle ran her hand through her wet hair one final time before deciding to head downstairs.

* * *

"You- you're eating my cereal."

Isabelle paused, a Raisin Bran laden spoon half way to her mouth. She turned hazel eyes to Mycroft, "I know," she replied, "it's terrible!"  
Mycroft Holmes looked greatly amused as he took the box and moved to pour some into his bowl, "I was ready to make you something My Dear, and we have other cereals," he said, one eyebrow raised at her. Isabelle shrugged, "I felt like disgusting Raisin Bran, so sue me."  
He frowned briefly before eventually shrugging it off and pouring cereal into his bowl. Isabelle was aware that all through the following meal, he was staring at her.

Work was uneventful.  
Madelyn had a conference coming up though which meant she might get to travel with her. That both excited Isabelle and terrified her, never having gone more than four places in her life. Mycroft might be pleased for her though; she would bring it up with him later.  
She still felt…off, the rest of the day. But she ignored it for the most part in hopes of it going away (which in retrospect wasn't the most tactile of moves).

When Isabelle returned home she was tired, irritable, and hungry. She made her way to the kitchen where Mycroft was cooking, and working on his phone. She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching his thumb trace over the screen of his Mobile before she cleared her throat. If he had done that to her she would have been startled, but Mycroft merely glanced up at her, smiled, and then turned back to what he was doing.  
Isabelle sighed, leaning against the open doorway. Her husband slowly stirred the contents of the pot with his free hand, "Tired?" he inquired pointlessly. He always knew when to ask her a question that would spur conversation.  
"Yes, very much," she mumbled rubbing at her closed eye, "I don't get what's wrong with me! I'm tired, I wanted to eat your stupid cereal, and I'm cramped all over!"  
"Had this been going on whilst I was away as well?" he inquired calmly, undeterred by the glare he received from her.  
"No, not really," she huffed, "I mean, I guess I felt kind of different but nothing really noticeable… What, do you know what's wrong with me?"

"Mm yes, you're pregnant."

There was an uncomfortably lengthy silence that followed the statement. Mycroft looked up from his phone, wide eyed, "Oh."  
"I-I'm uh, I'm uh-"  
"Of course, it is so easily to mindlessly deduce. How had I not seen it before?"  
"Y-you said I was…You mean I'm…"  
"The cravings, cramps, a decrease in energy, irritability. I must be slipping."  
"Mycroft!"

Ok, she hadn't intended to shout that loudly. He looked at her like a deer in the headlights.  
"I'm pregnant?" her voice softened.  
He nodded, "Of course, you had best take the test. There is always the off chance that I have misdiagnosed."  
"Have you?"  
"No."

More silence.

Eventually Isabelle moved towards him and pulled him into a hug, which he didn't reciprocate this time. She buried her face in his shoulder, "I'm pregnant!" she smiled, "We're going to have another child."  
"Yes, how exciting," Mycroft replied with very little enthusiasm behind his words.  
He removed himself from her arms and turned to the pot to stir. Isabelle was confused, slightly angry at his dismissal of the subject, and also rather unwilling to go into it.  
"You might try sounding like it," she replied stiffly, "I'll go check on Alistair," she spun around and left, just missing Mycroft's look, and the soft, sad sigh that escaped him.

* * *

**I hope you had a good Christmas (or, a good December 25th)  
I certainly had a good one. **

**Just a note about the character of "Alistair" and why I haven't written him to say anything: He is my sister's character from the RPG Lily originally came from. And I haven't asked her (and I'm not going to because she kind of disapproves of this story haha) whether I can use him or not. I'm not sure I trust myself to write him correctly anyways I suppose. So, he is there but not really and he won't have any chapters dedicated to him. – Thank you. X)**

**"Nightmares"**

**In which Isabelle has a nightmare, and Mycroft attempts to console her…as well as (accidentally) bringing up his doubts about being a father to someone that isn't Alistair.**


	29. Chapter 28- Nightmares

**Nightmares-**

Lily wasn't sure what to think of what she had just read. On the one hand, she had finally weaseled her way into the story! On the other, Isabelle didn't think Mycroft was happy about it.  
Lillian Holmes wasn't afraid of much, in the course of her life she'd nearly killed herself too many times to count (which was probably why her father got so little sleep these days), and she'd never learned from those experiences really.  
The things she was afraid of was the idea of the few people that seemingly cared for her deciding they'd had enough, and abandoning her (in a slightly more metaphorical way than just leaving her to the wolves).  
Her father was one of them. And as much as she resented her brother for being a perfect know-it-all, he was the other. So the idea of her father not wanting her in the first place, certainly did give her pause to consider whether she was just a burden dropped into his hands after her mother died.  
Lily fought back the discomfort that came with such thoughts, turning the page of the diary with one finger she hesitantly began to read again.

* * *

Isabelle woke up screaming. _Which was unpleasant.  
_The worst part was not knowing why it had happened. The dream faded quickly, leaving her sweaty, shaky, even crying, with her fingers digging into the shared blanket.  
Having lurched into a sitting position she arched her back, with her knees pulled up to her chest.  
Moments passed before she heard the padding of bare feet on the plush carpet and then the lights were clicked on. A much disheveled looking Mycroft stared at her with eyes still half closed, but with a level of concern behind that which settled her stomach.  
Mycroft made his way back to the bed and sat down beside her, fingers going to her wrist to check her pulse.  
"My Dear, you must calm down… Breathe slowly," he ordered in an overly calm tone, running his other hand down her back. Isabelle swallowed a lump in her throat before following his simple instruction. She felt some tension ease and she finally allowed herself to take in what had happened, "I-I had a nightmare I think," she smiled half-heartedly.  
"I had hoped that was the case," Mycroft replied, removing his fingers from her wrist yet maintaining the slow circles he was making on her back.

Isabelle shoved her hair away from her back, running her fingers through a short ways until she reached a tangle, "Did… did I knock you off the bed?"  
She could have sworn that she had shoved something warm and heavy off of her, and a thump followed. He all but confirmed it when he answered with a quick, "No. Of course not"  
"Oh Myc, I'm sorry," she apologized, trying not to smile broadly at him and failing. Her earlier fear was draining steadily into nothingness.  
He snorted softly, shifting so that his legs were once again covered by the blanket.  
Isabelle turned her gaze to her hands, "I don't remember what it was about," she mumbled, rubbing at her stinging eyes with her palm.  
Mycroft hummed an agreeing note, "That is often the case with-" he stopped himself, which probably meant he was going to say something insulting about the common masses, "people."  
The young woman forced herself not to give him a hardy smack on the arm for what he _almost _said, "Yes well…" she shoved her palm against her forehead, closing her eyes against what was probably a stress induced headache.

The two sat in silence, neither very tired anymore. Mycroft had begun tracing his pointer finger up and down her spine, his gaze fixed upon his covered knees.  
"I remember blood," Isabelle said without much thought behind it, a memory of her dream slowly finding its way back from her subconscious.  
Mycroft's hand halted its progress down her back, but he said nothing.  
"I remember that there was a lot of it, but I don't know whose it was. And I think that means that this was one of those truth based dreams rather than… me getting eaten alive by a squirrel or something," she shrugged at him.  
"I had one of those once," Mycroft commented mostly to himself, which got him an incredulous stare from his wife, "They are surprisingly gruesome."  
Isabelle shook the statement off with some difficulty, "_Anyways_, I wonder what deep psychological problem I must have to… to have had that dream."  
"Nightmare," he corrected still with little thought seemingly put behind it, "Nightmares of such a caliber are common My Dear, and rarely do they mean anything of real importance. As for the psychological problems you claim to have, I don't think we have to worry about them being too deep," he smirked sideways at her.

This time she did smack him.

"All I'm saying is, I must be crazy. What _you're _supposed to say after that is: of course not My Dear, you're the pinnacle of sanity!" she laughed.  
"That would be an egregious lie that would only hurt us both in the long run," he replied smoothly, raising his chin and looking down at her with half lidded eyes and a faint smile.  
Isabelle snorted at his gloating expression, "Snot," she shot back. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and ribs, a sobering thought striking her.  
"D-do you think something like that could, you know, do something to the baby?" she silently cursed herself for not being able to articulate her worry better.  
Mycroft blinked at her, "Insanity? I should think so," he joked.  
"Myc!" Isabelle yelped, perturbed that he would make fun of both her concern and the way she might raise their child.  
He raised a placating hand, "Apologies. Of course not, one instance of stress such as this should not do any lasting damage," he gave her a "_are you happy now?" _sort of look that made Isabelle internally bristle.

"Why are you so… so casual about this?" she asked him, letting out a slow breath. For the past three weeks-give or take, she had attempted to bring the subject up with Mycroft. He hardly spoke of the pregnancy, even when they visited the Doctor for their first checkup. He took it with silence, making Isabelle feel entirely alone. Having a child had been something she'd always planned, and while the addition of Alistair was wonderful (he was her son, no denying it) she still felt something special with the child growing inside of her. Why didn't he?  
"I'm hardly-"  
"You are!" Isabelle cut him off before he could spout denial like confetti flying out of a canon, "I don't get it. _You _brought Alistair to _me_! _You're_ the one that wanted to adopt him! But now I'm pregnant you don't _want_ this baby?"  
Mycroft's expression turned sour at the accusation, "It's not that I don't want the child, even if I didn't I wouldn't have a say in the matter-"  
"Damn right you wouldn't!"  
"The point I am making is not that I don't want the child…" he paused, pursing his lips. Isabelle's brow furrowed, "You don't think you'll be a good father?"  
He confirmed it with nothing but a glance in her direction. A sad little look. Isabelle likened it to puppy dog eyes.

"Oh."

"Yes," he smirked at his hands, "I was alright with Alistair, that child had been raising himself before I even found him. He is intelligent, resourceful, with great potential that I wish to nurture. The child inside of you is an unknown," he swallowed.  
Isabelle sighed, "Right, but being an unknown has nothing to do with your fathering skills does it?"  
He huffed, "The question is, whether this child will have a mind like mine," he gestured vaguely with both hands as if to force it into Isabelle's head.  
"Oh I see, so if this kid is smart, that's the most important thing to you?!" she snapped at him. Of course this would be his primary concern! She grit her teeth against the look he gave her- part condescending, another part pleading. She wasn't sure what to make of the second, but the first made her angry.

"No," he said firmly, "That is not what I meant."

Isabelle was about to shout for him to just tell her what the problem was, that skirting around what he really wanted to say was not going to make things better! But then her eyes widened in realization.  
"Oh Myc!" she quickly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin on his shoulder. Mycroft's hands found their place on her back, "Why are you hugging me?" he asked, a smile in his voice letting her know that it was at least appreciated.  
"Because you're so sad," she mumbled against his neck. He stiffened, "I am not sad," he objected uselessly.  
"Yes you are, adorable and sad."  
Now he pulled away, a look of distaste resting on his features, "I am neither of those things."  
Isabelle shrugged, "The fact that you think of yourself with so much negativity is sad," Isabelle insisted, biting her bottom lip against anything else she dared say.

"For God's- that isn't what I meant, alright?" he seemed at the end of some invisible tether his voice tight and restrained, "Might I try going back to sleep without the promise of you shoving me off the bed this time?"  
Isabelle groaned quite loudly, "Then _what did you mean?_ Ok, please just tell me!" she climbed out of the bed and threw her arms wide, immediately wishing she had chosen to wear pajama bottoms rather than a nightgown because her legs quickly froze.  
Mycroft looked just as frustrated as she was, "There was no point My Dear, please come back here."  
Isabelle closed her eyes, letting her hands flop at her sides.

"Myc, I won't be able to sleep unless you tell me everything. I know that sharing isn't your strong point but if it helps… I have a bunch of problems too. I jump to conclusions, I fight people before I know what they're really talking about, my self-esteem is dirt and I let people walk all over me all the time, I'm-"

"Over emotional."

"I'm over emotional exactly!" she blushed, "these are things I was born with, and what my family raised me to be whether they wanted to or not. But I'm happy, with a good job. So what… what is the problem you're seeing?"  
The conversation had turned deadly serious now, she could feel it. Isabelle felt a lump in her throat, watching as Mycroft stepped out of bed and stood at a distance from her.  
She shuddered as the mask was placed on with expertise, his voice flat and dead, "The nightmare that follows me constantly… is the image of a chasm. I stand at one side, my brother stands at the other. I reach out to him, and it widens. Eventually after several desperate attempts, he falls in. And he's dead. The dream ends.  
I already tried to raise someone, my parents as wonderful as they are-" he put a hand up to halt Isabelle's protestations, "weren't natural parents, especially when it came to raising geniuses. They doted on us when they saw fit, _when they were home_. I am not… normal. I am brilliant, incredible," he smirked in that self-satisfied way of his, "but I have never been normal, and my brother is less so to the degree of being unable to hide the fact. And to raise a child is something I never saw myself doing. Do you understand? I will never be comfortable with the idea."

Isabelle stepped slowly towards him and extended her hand, sliding her fingers between his, "You're not doing this alone. I get that maybe your childhood wasn't…great," she hesitated to suggest anything more, having little data on just how he was raised, "But look at you, you have a wife and a son and a job that I dare not name. The-the point I'm trying-and failing- to make is that I'm here and that we're going to be great parents. We fill each other's gaps, isn't that how the saying goes?"  
She looked into his eyes and saw a practical spring-well of emotions that he was currently hiding, "You seem sure of this," he mumbled.  
"I am," Isabelle assured, "we're going to be awesome."  
Mycroft leaned towards her, joining his mouth with hers. She tasted his toothpaste and the slightest touch of morning mouth yet to be fully realized at such an early hour in the morning. She hummed against him, closing her eyes.  
It felt like no time had passed before he had pulled away, "Well, isn't it nice to have that settled," he demurred, "sleep?"  
Isabelle was quite certain that this was a cement job over the remaining problems they had not brought up, but decided to take it for now. She was tired.

"Yeah. Sleep."

* * *

**Oh how I hate Writer's Block. Seriously, it took far too long for me to come up with even this. WTF brain?! I'm not even sure I like this. All well, I'm not working any more on this bugger! Lol**

**The whole "We're going to do this together" line is a bit of shameless foreshadowing. Also, it's sort of a lead in to a fic I'm writing: "Five Times Mycroft wasn't the best father and one time he was." (working title). I don't know if I'll ever finish it, but I wanted to write about how Mycroft wouldn't exactly be a _perfect_ father. **

**_"Yes you are, adorable and sad._****"- Yeah, I watched the Abominable Bride (twice)… WAAH!**

**"Caring"****  
**

**In which Isabelle does not take well to pregnancy, and her health deteriorates. Mycroft freaks out in a very Mycroft-ian way… by trying to control everything. (Mycroft's POV, thought I'd practice)**


	30. Chapter 29- Caring

**Caring-**

Lily considered the ordeal, and her Uncle Sherlock. She'd never thought of her father having _real_ trouble with him. Sherlock was by far the coolest person she knew, and whenever she talked to her dad he merely spoke with resignation to his brother's crazy behavior.  
And along those same lines, she'd never thought of her father ever doubting himself. It was something she had to take in slowly. At least her mother proved to be an open book (no pun intended) in all her reactions.  
For a moment the young woman considered going inside, maybe to talk to Alistair or do something otherwise productive. But then again, when had she ever been productive? Her gray eyes took in the first sentence with just a touch of confusion.

_I'm an utter hypocrite!_

* * *

Isabelle was going to return from her two-week-long trip north with Madelyn Ross and Mycroft was… well, excited was definitely too strong a word, but he deemed it satisfactory enough to use it in his head. He was _excited_.

For one, Alistair didn't make the best conversationalist unless the topic was intellectual or regarding Mycroft's work (not that he minded this in the least, it was just a topic they exhausted after two weeks of nothing else), whereas Isabelle would talk endlessly about _anything_. Once they played the "Would you rather" game over breakfast, with alien abduction/invasion scenarios.  
For another, the bed was annoyingly empty-_and_\- he had been stuck feeding Blackbeard! The rodent insisted on climbing up his arm every time he opened the cage, and trying to hold onto the small furry creature was rather like trying to grasp a wet bar of soap.

At any rate, Isabelle would be home at any moment and he was _mildly _enthusiastic.

Mycroft slid a serving spoon into the noodle casserole he had prepared, having already set the table and alerted Alistair (quite unnecessarily) that dinner would be served at Six –o-clock _sharp_ whether Isabelle was there on time or not.  
Fingering his pocket watch he leaned against the counter, carefully avoiding the habit of biting his bottom lip-something Isabelle did quite often. Her lips were always a little bit blotchy because of it, not that he minded in the least, it was always a stray observation in the back of his mind.  
Without thought he tapped his fingers against his legs (a hurried Moonlight Sonata), impatiently awaiting his wife's return. When had he become so dependent upon her presence? It was a valid question!  
He was pulled from his thoughts when he heard the door begin to open and he nearly cried out in relief. Nearly. Well, less than nearly. He was relieved and that was the most important bit.

Mycroft made his way to the front door to find her shrugging off her coat, "Isabelle," he greeted. She flinched (because she was so easily startled by just about everything) then spun around with a sunny smile clearly presented on her face.  
It was at this point, Mycroft's turn to be startled.  
It was a well-known fact that Isabelle was a naturally thin person. She would have to work hard to be anything else. But this… this was different.  
Her face had hollowed out rather than filled in unlike most pregnant women. Her stomach had distended already as their child reached its fifth week, but it stood out strongly against the incline around it, as well as jutting hip bones. She looked sleep deprived, and a sicklier pale than he'd ever seen on her.  
Isabelle's joyful expression faltered when a grimace crossed her husband's face, "What?"

Taking in a calming breath Mycroft forced back the concern that overtook his very being and instead took her coat from her and kissed upon her freckled cheek, "Nothing of importance My Dear," he soothed, mentally taking in every detail of her thin body and deciding that Madelyn would be murdered for not having watched his wife properly, "How was your trip?"  
Isabelle's grin returned, "Wonderful, I learned a lot and Mrs. Ross said that I was _on point_ with taking notes and even for offering a few questions!" she ran a hand over her ponytail.  
"Excellent, I'm proud of you," he supplied smoothly, hanging her jacket upon the coatrack.  
"Thanks Myc," she replied, "I had a fun time but God I am tired," she stretched out her long arms over her head.  
"Well," Mycroft supplied quickly, "I have just prepared dinner, you may enjoy a meal with your husband and son then you can get some proper sleep."  
Isabelle's nose wrinkled, "I'm not very hungry actually, I think I'm going to bed now. Unless Alistair wanted to talk to me first…"

Mycroft considered at that moment, lying. Because if he could perhaps get her to the table and with a plate of food in front of her than she might actually eat from it. But it occurred to him that Alistair's disinterest might destroy the ruse. So instead he decided that a good night's sleep might do more good towards her health, "No, I do believe he can wait until tomorrow to catch up."  
Isabelle huffed, "I figured." She was fully aware that her son wasn't her biggest fan-though he did like her well enough they weren't… close. Not yet at the very least.

Isabelle stretched again and yawned, "I can't believe it's only six," she mumbled, kissing him sloppily before making her way past him to the stairs.  
Mycroft watched her progress, something gnawing hungrily at his heart.

* * *

Entering Madelyn Ross's office brought back a heavy dose of unwanted nostalgia. A memory of sitting in the creaky old chair behind the mahogany desk, a chip carved into the edge of it from when Deric Swallow had attempted to stab him for being a "heartless bastard"… Good times.

Madelyn had been one of the few high points of his early years- bright, a good follower, and completely accepting of his somewhat distant nature. Even though she had been working there for longer than he had, she had quickly noted his superiority over her and followed accordingly-yet unafraid to argue with him if she felt it was needed.  
Mycroft had offered some years later for her to move upwards in her career, but she had refused, stating that she wanted to work where she could be of the most use and this was it. He instead offered her the desk, and the two didn't speak for eight years until Isabelle got the job as Secretary.  
Were he not Mycroft Holmes, he might have (almost, _maybe_) called her friend. As it was, he had come up with thirty two different ways to make her pay for not ensuring the health of Isabelle Holmes.

Madelyn looked up from her paperwork, a pair of reading glasses sitting sedately on her nose, "Mr. Holmes, to what do I owe the pleasure?" she asked, folding her hands over the desk.  
"Hello Madelyn."  
The woman tensed, "Oh dear, is this about Isabelle?"  
The smile he gave her was so cold it could turn the whole office to ice, "Whatever could have given you that impression?"  
Madelyn rubbed at her temple with one dark finger, "Because you never use my first name unless it's serious, and what else do we have in common at the moment?"  
Mycroft stopped a grimace from crossing his features; he instead leaned against his umbrella in a falsely casual manner, "Of course this is about Isabelle."  
The amused smile that Madelyn gave him was almost enough for him to rethink the umbrella. It was always odd going back to people that were familiar with him, the few that could see far enough past the armor to find him humorous rather than scary.  
"I didn't want to force myself upon the poor girl, dealing with pregnancies are hard and emotionally taxing sometimes- but I did try to talk to her about it."  
"Obviously you did not try hard enough because she looks to have gone on a month long fast," Mycroft replied stiffly, gray eyes filled with anger.

Mrs. Ross twisted her wedding ring, "What was I meant to do Mycroft, force food down her throat?"  
_Now that's an idea_ Mycroft thought morbidly to himself, "My only concern is towards her health Madelyn-"  
"You really care for her."  
He paused in the coming tirade, "I married her, what else did you expect?" he scoffed. The woman sitting before him rolled her eyes, "I only meant that I've never seen you this worried. If it helps you, I might keep more of an eye on her during work."  
Suddenly feeling as though everything was off kilter, Mycroft lifted his umbrella and straightened his posture, "That would be appreciated…thank you."  
"It's no problem dear," Mrs. Ross smiled warmly, "Is there anything else?"  
Cursing the lack of control he had in the conversation he smiled in return-less kindly of course. Poking his tongue against his cheek he considered what else he might bring up with her. He might have tried for friendly conversation, instead of his original intention-verbal threats. Or perhaps he could have attempted to speak about work and the state of everything.

Instead he regarded her with a nod of his head, and he turned to leave.

"Goodbye Mycroft…see you next year."

* * *

Standing in the kitchen with an egg in one hand, and a lemon in the other, Mycroft wondered if anyone might consider him mad if they saw him. Perhaps not in the eye of anyone that knew him very well such as Sherlock or Isabelle, but they were a little bit crazy themselves so it hardly counted.

He decided to set down the lemon, the egg held just above the edge of a metal bowl. Patiently he waited for the sound of feminine footsteps, or rather, the heavy clomping of Isabelle's sneakers.

For the past week he had been keeping a steady eye on his wife, who while well rested, looked as gaunt as ever reminding him painfully of Sherlock's earlier years. She seemed to be content with poking at her food most of the time, whilst retaining her oddly perky attitude. She was hiding something, she had to be.  
Mycroft had contacted (via phone or visit to her workplace when she wasn't there) Isabelle's co-workers. He informed them that if they would merely watch after Isabelle's eating habits, and her general demeanor, he would be both grateful and entirely willing to reimburse them for any backlash they might receive for spying on Isabelle- they all knew that she could be just the slightest bit mean when she wanted to be. William had been on board if only due to the guilt he obviously felt for hitting on an already taken woman. Bennita Hollister was willing to take the money, and whilst being a bit of a dim bulb (but then, compared to Mycroft who wasn't?) she did show open concern towards Isabelle's health. A few others (Antonia, Brent, and Lia) looked at him oddly, but conceded to keeping an eye out for her despite their lack of knowledge on her.  
All in all, things should have been going better. Instead, Isabelle continued her downward trajectory. She'd started throwing up in the morning again, which was concerning and warranted a visit to Doctor Jones-which was scheduled for two days hence.

Mycroft looked up from the bowl when he heard the sound of Isabelle's footsteps, as soon as they came close enough he cracked the egg against the edge of the bowl and (with one hand) parted the shell from the wet inside. Isabelle stopped in the doorway, "What'cha making?" she inquired, smirking at the obvious grimace he made at her grammar.  
"_We_ My Dear. We shall be making Lemon Cake."  
Isabelle raised both her eyebrows, "Lemon Cake? But last time we made cake it was cheese cake, I would have thought that was harder," she said, stepping towards him and picking up the lemon from the counter.  
Mycroft smirked sideways at her, "This is my mother's recipe, and it anything but simple."

The idea of cooking with Isabelle was of course a rather underhanded trick to get her to eat some of the finished product. Using his mother's recipe was a sure fire way to get her to join in on the baking process, as she seemed to have formed a loving view of both his parents.

Mycroft offered her an egg which she hesitated to accept for only a brief moment. She set aside the lemon and set about clumsily tapping the object against the bowl.  
"So, is this 'Mrs. Holmes' famous Lemon Cake' then?" she grinned.  
Mycroft took the zester and the fruit and began scraping thin peel shavings into a different bowl, "My mother always used to say 'when life gives you lemons, make Lemon Cake'" he supplied dutifully, "I of course took it to mean, why settle for simple lemonade when you can have grandeur?"  
Isabelle's small nose wrinkled, "I wouldn't think that Lemon Cake was very grand," she said, picking out a piece of egg shell from the first bowl with her fingertips.  
"Believe me My Dear, when Mummy made it, it was grand," he slid the lemon one last time across the metal before setting it aside, "Flour."  
Isabelle nodded and took the flour off from atop the fridge, "My mum used to make a lot of pasta, but whenever we had sweets she would make the stuff from the packaging."  
Mycroft had heard this before when they had made brownies, he smiled fondly at her nonetheless.

The two proceeded to make a glaze, frosting, as well as pouring the batter into several pans and shoving them into the oven. Isabelle leaned against the oven, pressing the heel of her palm against her closed eye. Concern once again rose inside of him, "Isabelle-"  
"What?" she snapped.  
Somewhat taken aback Mycroft attempted to harden his voice with less unease, "You seem tired," he commented lazily.  
Isabelle bit her bottom lip, "I'm fine."  
He tutted, "Hardly," he nearly spat despite himself, "You look as though you haven't eaten in ages."

_Damn._

Of course at this Isabelle bristled, because showing _more_ concern for her wellbeing was clearly not the tactic to take in this situation.  
"Oh yeah?" she practically snarled, all that bubbly joy completely gone, "I suppose I'm turning into a bird lady?"  
Mycroft put out both his hands in a placating gesture, "That was not what I meant My Dear, you must know this-"  
"Right, Myc. Look I'm not in a good mood anymore and I know who to blame!"

And she stormed out.

Mycroft blinked several times. Was this…hormones? Or, or… uh…. He couldn't think of any reason for Isabelle's brash behavior beyond the pregnancy. He swore to himself just for the sake of it, though he got nothing out of the action. He leaned against the counter and stared at the small little timer which ticked off the forty minutes it would take for the cake to cook. All well, he supposed, if Isabelle decided not to eat it… he loved Lemon Cake.

* * *

The following day the two returned to work, Mycroft placed in a bad mood which caused several of his subordinates to flee from him. After all the practice he had gone through with Sherlock, he would have thought he might have learned. Watching after another human being caused nothing but heartache!

He typed with extra force, biting the inside of his mouth hard enough to bring forth a touch of blood and a very sore cheek.  
Returning from work with Alistair in tow, he set off towards the kitchen to prepare a meal that was going to be eaten (in all likeliness) by only the two of them. The small boy gave him an oddly sympathetic look before he shrugged off his book bag and then made his way to the library.

It wasn't just that Isabelle was putting herself in danger, she was also risking the child. And while his primary concern would always be with his wife, it was something that nagged at him every time he saw her.  
Bringing up a frying pan he set out to make battered fish, when he heard the front door slam open.

"MYCROFT HOLMES!"

Oh dear. Mycroft coolly turned towards the sound, waiting for Isabelle to shed her coat and shove her umbrella into the waiting stand. The squeak of her wet shoes against the floor made the muscles in his shoulder tighten with anxiety. He was about to be yelled at, which while mostly un-deterring-was unpleasant.

Isabelle's hands were clenched into fists at her side, "Do you know what I just learned today?!"  
Without looking up at her he poured oil into the pan, "I can't imagine," he replied. His wife groaned, "Don't play innocent Myc. I just learned that you have been paying Bennita and William to _spy- on- me_!" Mycroft finally looked up at her, his mouth set into a grim line, "Isabelle I am wholly concerned for your health," he said factually, "I only-"  
"Is this how normal people show concern? Hm, NO! I don't think it is."  
His fist connected with the unlit stove now, making a louder bang than he thought it would. At least it halted Isabelle's incessant shouting. It was time to fill the void with his own.  
"Perhaps if you were to properly care for yourself I would not have to waste my concern!" he snarled, "Perhaps if you had the good sense not to starve yourself I would not have to enlist the help of your poor deluded co-workers, nor dance around you as though you might explode at any moment!"  
She shook her head, "I should have known that this was all your _concern_, remember the last time you tried to help me? With my sisters?"  
"When I removed you from your abusive relationship with them and had you seek help for your blood-loss? Oh dear, I do hope I hadn't caused you distress."

Isabelle-now quite worked up- ran a hand over her wet scalp, "YOU are not a martyr! This is not always about _you_!"  
"Then I do urge you to reestablish this conversation as about you and your poor health!" he shot back, "Isabelle you are clearly suffering from mel-nutrition and if you continue upon this road you will cause lasting damage to yourself and the baby."  
"Look," Isabelle put out a hand before he could make any progress towards her, "I'm grateful to know that you care, but I am doing just fine! I don't need people looking at me like I-I'm some sort of f-freak that you gawk at!"  
"No one is looking at you like that I assu-" Mycroft stopped. A blooming pain made its way across his abdomen.  
Without thought he bent over, pressing a hand against his right side, mentally repeating _Don't fall over, don't fall over, don't fall over! _

"M-Myc?"

"Ahhhh, haaa," Mycroft half moaned. Isabelle's eyes widened, "Oh God, what is it? Poison? Cramps? Heart attack?" she yelped, all anger having left her.

"I beg your pardon!"

"Sorry, I just…what's wrong?" Isabelle guided him to a chair. Mycroft let out a slow breath, "Current diagnosis?" he smirked through the nausea (_Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up!)_, "Appendicitis."  
"Should I call for Bastian or-or someone?" Isabelle asked quickly, smoothly pulling his phone from his inner pocket.  
"Yes," Mycroft hissed.  
"Should I come with-"  
"No!" at the hurt look he received Mycroft reiterated, "Watch after Alistair of course My Dear."

Isabelle settled on leaning against the fridge as they waited for Bastian, alternating between worried, and hurt.

* * *

Mycroft woke in a hospital bed, surgery over and done with he would return to work soon. If he didn't, he thought he might go insane.

Blinking blearily up at the ceiling he thought he heard the rather bothersome sound of someone chewing beside him. Lazily he turned his head to look at the person, entirely surprised to find Isabelle munching on a rather lank sandwich.  
"Is- My Dear, what are you doing?" he inquired, wondering just how much pain he would be in if he were to deny any further painkillers.  
"Oh, you're awake," she sighed, "I was worried the visit might be wasted," she smiled in a sideways fashion.  
He was about to ask who "we" was, but then he caught the sight of Alistair sitting in the other chair, a book resting on his lap.  
"Ah," he huffed, "might I ask why you're eating a truly disgusting looking sandwich?" he inquired.

"Because I'm a hypocrite."

Hm, he hadn't been expecting that response. Mycroft sat up, taking in Isabelle's perfectly flowing brown hair, red rimmed eyes, and the way her fingers tightened on the foam container the sandwich had come from.  
"You know," she continued, "I didn't promise myself a lot when I was a kid. But one thing I never wanted to be was a hypocrite. I swore on everything that I wouldn't be like those people at school that taunted others, while being perfectly flawed themselves," a tear rolled down her cheek.  
Mycroft's brow furrowed, "I understand," was all he could think to say.  
"I thought I was being perfectly reasonable for a while, until you decided to burst your appendix, then I was so…worried! And I kind of realized that if I was allowed to be endlessly worried about you, why couldn't you be just as concerned for me?" her lip trembled.

Mycroft had the good sense to extend his arms and pull her in for a comforting embrace. The warm touch of her hands on his collar bone, her face pressed against his neck, was enough to sooth all the pain he'd gone through the past few weeks.  
"I'm not doing alright Myc, I'm sick all the time and-and I don't know what I'm doing," she sniffled.  
"It's alright Dearheart," he mumbled, pressing a kiss against the part in her hair, "Not all are physically prepared for this… "  
"Yeah, but most don't try to hide the fact," she shot back, chuckling softly.  
She removed herself from his arms and wiped at her eyes with her free hand, the other still circling the bit of hospital food she'd obviously pilfered from him.

The two sat in companionable silence for a while before Isabelle's voice broke through, "I don't suppose you did this on purpose-"  
"What, appendicitis?" Mycroft smirked, "I truly beautiful plan, and I do imagine I could have pulled it off but, no I'm afraid not."  
She giggled, "I wouldn't put it past you to do something like that you know, you're properly devious."  
"I know," he demurred.  
Mycroft picked at his blanket with his fingertips, "I suppose I should inform your fellow employees that they needn't watch over you anymore."  
Isabelle shrugged, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear, "No, it's…it's ok. It's always an opportunity to mess with them if I grow tired of it."  
"Devious," he mumbled, "and that is why I married you."

Isabelle took another small bite of the sandwich before setting it aside, looking at him earnestly, "Seriously though Myc, I thought I should say… thank you for uh, you know. Caring. Besides my parents it feels like you're the first."

Mycroft took her hand in his, running his thumb across her knuckles, "The same to you My Dear. The same to you."

* * *

**Cheesy ending WOO!**

**Ah, this is better. Maybe the quality hasn't increased, but getting out a decently long chapter so soon feels goood! (My fingers hurt so bad gah!)  
I didn't bother to edit again which I'm seriously going to regret soon, I will probably fix it tomorrow if I have the time but now I just wanted to get it out. ;)**

**Thank you for reviewing guys! As it happens, we are only two chapters away from the last one (I was startled to discover going over the list) so if you have any suggestions at all before I finish this baby I want to hear them!  
Did this feel OOC at all? I'm aware that I've seriously softened the character of Mycroft for this fic.**

**"Lillian Rosalie-Sophia Holmes"**

**Set almost directly after my other fic "Not panicking". Mycroft and Isabelle talk about their new daughter.**


	31. Chapter 30- Lillian Holmes

**Lillian Rosalie-Sophia Holmes-**

Lillian was reminded for probably the fiftieth time whilst reading the diary that her mother hadn't been the brightest person out there. She did show respect for the woman, Isabelle Holmes was a caring compassionate person with nothing left in her but to give. But to behave as though nothing was wrong while her health deteriorated? That obviously wasn't the smartest move she'd ever made.  
Going through a few more pages filled with nothing but talk of the pregnancy, how Mycroft was watching her like a hawk, and several lists of baby names- Lillian finally came across something of substance.  
It just so happened it was about Lillian herself, she smirked to herself at this revelation. Watch out Alistair, she got her own chapter in this story!

Going through it, wasn't nearly as exciting as she'd thought it would be.

* * *

Isabelle was exhausted. There was no other word for it.  
After Sherlock had taken her to the hospital, and successfully gotten her into the room with Doctor at hand, he'd left for the waiting room. And everything after that was a blur of pain, fear, and exhaustion.  
They had considered a C-section after several hours of pushing and waiting, but in the end little Lillian Holmes was born which was the most important thing.  
As it turned out, Isabelle had been a little too thin and a little too weak to do it any other way- which apparently meant that she was going to need extra time to recuperate. Another reason for her husband to dote on her endlessly.

With Lillian in her arms, Isabelle let her eyelids droop, listening to the steady sound of her own breathing. Her free hand was held firmly in that of her husband who had arrived an hour or so after their child was born. The injustice of it was not lost on either, but everything had run smoothly and no one had been hurt so they let it slide to the back of their consciousness.  
Turning her head she looked at Mycroft through half closed eyes. His gaze being fixed upon the phone resting in his other hand, thumb running in a pattern across the screen, his lips pursed and brow furrowed in concentration. In all likeliness he had left a very important meeting or "operation" of sorts to come to her, and was making up for that fact. Isabelle had been surprised that Anthea (again for simplicity's sake, we'll call her Anthea) hadn't ended up in the hospital too, talking with her boss to talk in length about what they should do next.

Lily shifted in the blanket she was curled up in, her mouth opening in a toothless yawn that somehow garnered the attention of both parents.  
Isabelle smiled, her daughter was beautiful. At that moment, still a bit red, tiny and wrinkled. But beautiful.  
She said as much to Mycroft who nodded and replied with a smooth compliment, "She's your daughter."  
"She's yours too may I remind you," Isabelle said, stroking her daughter's cheek with the pad of her thumb, "Sherlock says that she's going to have your nose when she gets older."  
She wasn't sure if the sour expression that crossed her husband's face was due to Sherlock's earlier presence or the idea of his daughter being caught with a nose as long as his was.  
"Poor soul," he said with finality and the slightest touch of a sideways smirk that overtook his short lived scowl.  
"I like your nose, but I will admit that on a girl it might look a bit awkward," Isabelle sighed, "he also said that she'd have my chin and probably freckles.  
"My brother likes to think he can see into the future," Mycroft commented, sliding his mobile into his trouser pocket with one level movement.  
"Maybe he can, he predicted that she'd be a girl-"  
"He went with the odds," Mycroft insisted, "Your family was comprised mostly of females, ours was more even with both male and female nearing equality in number."  
She wasn't sure what to say to that, she did consider informing him that she didn't really believe that Sherlock could see the future, but figured it to be a little taunting.

"…Have you called your mother yet?"

Mycroft's mouth moved with no words escaping for a moment, "No," he swallowed. Isabelle huffed, squeezing his hand with enough force to send him the message, "You better have told them by the end of the day, who knows how long it'll take them to get here," she ordered.  
The tall man rolled his eyes, "They could be in America and it might only take them an hour, you should have heard her on the phone when I told her of your pregnancy. I'm still suffering some hearing loss in my right ear."  
Isabelle giggled abruptly at this, which made Lillian squirm as well as Alistair- asleep on one of the plastic chairs, his father's jacket draped over his thin body.

Isabelle's thin lips formed a fond little smile, "We have quite a family now, don't we," she whispered so as not to further upset them.  
"Indeed, hard to believe is it not," Mycroft said in a similarly hushed tone.  
Isabelle nodded trying hard not to close her eyes which would inevitably lead to sleep, "Four years ago, I thought I was going to be alone forever…"  
"As did I. Actually, I was rather looking forward to it."  
She tilted her head to give him a raised eyebrow, "Seriously?"  
Mycroft quirked his lips into a sideways smile, "Of course, I hardly wanted any form of relationship. As I've told you before, I was both in the café and talking to you merely because I was bored… That is not to say I'm not happy at the way things turned out," he added quickly.  
"Nice save," Isabelle snarked, "I was the complete opposite."  
"I'm aware of that My Dear," his hand slid up and then down her hand rejoining their fingers, "very aware."  
Unsure if she should be insulted by that, but soothed by his gentle touch, Isabelle decided not to dispute it. It seemed worthless to argue about something she'd stated outright.

"Anyways, I'm happy… I've never been happier, I don't see how anything could go wrong now," she sighed contentedly.  
"I wouldn't say that," Mycroft warned, crossing one leg over the other, "The universe has a way of ruining our peaceful existence."  
The young woman turned her gaze to her son, using his arm as a pillow, knees tucked up to his chest. How could anything possibly go wrong now? She shuddered to think of anything happening to her children, much less Mycroft! So she didn't. She'd decided upon first sight of Lillian Rosalie-Sophia that life was for better things than worrying all the time, besides…she had Mycroft for that.

The infant's beautiful blue eyes opened, surely going to turn the same gray as her father's in time just as his did. Isabelle wondered at Lily's blonde hair, something her mother had possessed. Beautiful golden hair that she'd cut short and kept in a constant little ponytail. She wondered if she would keep her blonde, or if it would turn brown in time. She hoped not.  
The name already seemed to suit the infant, Lillian being the name of her mum and Isabelle's middle name.

_-"I think I've decided on what I'd like to uh, name the baby."  
Mycroft, having been working at his desk before he was so rudely interrupted looked up at her incredulously, "Oh?"  
Isabelle had stiffened her resolve, "I was thinking Rowan if it's a boy-after my Grandfather- and Lillian if it's a girl…after my mum."  
He stared at her for a good long time before he smiled genuinely, "If that's what you want, I hardly wish to object."  
Surprised, Isabelle had moved further into the room, "I didn't think it'd be that easy. Don't you have any…suggestions?"  
Sliding his laptop to the side he folded his hands in front of him, "I thought I might pick the middle names if that's alright with you."-_

How could she have argued? Isabelle did wonder at _William_ for if the baby had been a boy, it felt so ordinary compared to Rosalie-Sophia. But when she asked about it, he merely waved her off saying it suited the first name.  
Mycroft's phone chimed and he dug it out of his pocket with one hand, still almost desperately holding hers. Isabelle knew that he was entirely angry at himself for missing the birth, supporting her at every moment except the one he thought counted the most. And She would admit to being rather upset about it as well, being in a strange room with a nurse beside her offering reassurances that meant very little coming from a stranger. She'd wanted Mycroft to hold her hand and tell her to stop worrying because he'd already informed the Doctor of what would happen to him if something went wrong. She almost needed it. Instead she had to settle for Sherlock scaring everyone with his freaky shark-grin.

"Visiting hours will be over soon you know," Isabelle couldn't help but mumble sleepily to him, her head lolling in his direction. Mycroft nodded, "I dread to think of leaving you-"  
"Alistair needs to get into a real bed Myc," Isabelle argued without much heart, wishing that he could slide into the bed beside her and spend the night.  
At that moment of course a nurse (Evelyn, she believed) entered the room to take Lillian and to inform Mycroft that his presence was no longer allowed.  
He stood up, fingers still twined with hers he bent over and kissed Isabelle softly upon the forehead, murmuring, "_I treasure you_," against her ear before he removed his hand from hers. Breathlessly Isabelle responded, "I love you."  
The sleeping Alistair was lifted into his father's arms, head resting against his shoulder. Isabelle watched his progress, and then listened for the click of his expensive shoes against the linoleum floor.

* * *

**Short but sweet. XD**

**"Parenthood 101"**

**In which Isabelle and Mycroft adjust to being parents of an infant, a loud infant. Dealing with their busy schedules, sleepless nights (most of the time), and people coming to see Lillian, things never run as smoothly as they might have expected.**

**Please Review!**


	32. Chapter 31- Parenting 101

**Parenting 101-**

Lillian flipped the page casually, finding a few short entries. She perused easily through them finding quite a few of them about her such as "_Lily keeps waking me up at night, I am SO tired!" _and, "_I'm sore all over and Lily keeps fussing whenever I put her down. SO tired!"  
_Lily found these quite amusing. Eventually she landed on some longer ones and she eagerly began to read, brushing blonde hair behind her ear.

* * *

Isabelle had fallen asleep on the car ride home from the hospital, her head lolling back and her mouth open expelling pitiful little puffs of air. Mycroft had the good sense to remove Lillian from his wife's arms before this happened, and when Isabelle woke she saw him holding the infant with the paramount of care against his chest.  
It took a moment for it to register that the car had stopped, and might have been stopped for some time. Mycroft was unbuckled but unmoving, waiting for her to wake before he left for the house. Idly she wondered just how long he would be willing to wait for her. Hours? Ten minutes? Three more seconds? Whatever the time, she appreciated it.  
The young woman stretched out her sore limbs (at this point, everything was sore) careful not to make any sound for fear of waking Lillian. The baby had proven to be a pretty good sleeper thus far, not easily woken but still thought of as a ticking time bomb. When she was awake Lily could shatter glass with how loudly she sometimes wailed, her limbs kicking out and hands clenching into little fists. Mycroft seemed undaunted by this, a sweet little smile forming out of his mouth as though he was experiencing some great nostalgia. Isabelle on the other hand wanted to put her hands over her ears and run away, drowning out the infant with her own cries of distress.

"Did you sleep well?" Mycroft asked, shifting Lillian to one arm so that he could open the door for himself. Isabelle nodded mutely, pulling off her seatbelt and following her husband out of the car. Head rush forced her to lean against the car, "Ooh," she moaned. Mycroft came to her side and slid his free hand into hers, "One step at a time My Dear," he cooed, squeezing her hand. She smiled sideways at him.  
They made their way to the large front door; Mycroft slid his key into the lock and opened it with his free hand.  
Isabelle was ushered in where she closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of home. Clean laundry, old books, Mycroft… heavenly when compared to the hospital.

"If you go sit down, I will give you back your child," he smirked from behind her. Isabelle rolled her eyes, "I'm going, I'm going…_ours_," she laughed. Her husband had taken the doctor's word to heart, and had informed Isabelle that on no uncertain terms was she to do anything arduous until he deemed her healthy enough-that included standing for longer than ten minutes apparently. She conceded to this though because he had been so good to her during the pregnancy, and she wasn't a hypocrite…anymore. Less of a hypocrite at the very least- there was probably something she was doing under that thread that she didn't realize.  
Isabelle decided to go to the library where the plushest chair was housed, settling into it with an audible sigh. Mycroft bent over and eased Lillian into her arms, "There we go," he mouthed, standing back and retrieving his phone immediately.  
Isabelle cradled the infant, smiling softly. How often had she dreamed of this? Well, not specifically _this_. If she had pictured marrying a man like Mycroft and the life that came with it she might have been considered crazy.

"Good Lord, run for the hills, my parents will be here in three hours," Mycroft said, breaking his wife's moment of reflectiveness. Her smile grew into a grin, "Oh yeah?"  
He looked up from the screen of his mobile and frowned, "Yes. And they're bringing Sherlock with them, joy upon joys," he tucked the offending item back into his pocket, "I rather thought I could get some work done."  
Isabelle held her breath when Lily shifted beneath her blanket, stretching out one stubby arm. Her chubby hands gripped the edge, and her beautiful blue eyes opened a fraction. She didn't cry though, merely took in her surroundings with a surprising amount of disdain for a baby.  
"You can't blame your mother for wanting to come see her new granddaughter," Isabelle countered after a moment's pause, "You _can_ though, blame her for bringing your brother along," she winked, "Why are they anyways, Sherlock was the first of you to see her."  
Mycroft found it prevalent in his mind to straighten a set of heavy books sitting otherwise sedately on the shelves.  
"At least they gave you three hours," Isabelle added with a shrug.  
Mycroft sneered, "All the time in the world to fix governmental collapse," he commented, Isabelle left unsure if he was joking or not.

Nearly three hours passed by without incident, Isabelle had fallen asleep again and was later woken by Lillian's cries for food. She provided, and found herself searching for her husband as she buttoned closed her shirt.  
She found him dusting the piano of all things, damp rag in hand with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Isabelle loved the way he looked in just his waistcoat over his white button up shirt, red tie tucked in and golden pocket watch chain… dapper, but not _pretentiously_ so.  
He didn't acknowledge her, making her wonder if he was ignoring her or if he hadn't noticed that she was there. Isabelle readjusted Lily in her arms, just watching her husband smoothly run his rag along the smooth black surface.  
With his back to her, he bent over to wipe it down the leg of the instrument. Isabelle, given full of view of his rear end, found herself unable to hold back whistling at him as though he was a beautiful woman on the street, "Hubba, hubba!"  
Mycroft flinched, stood straight, and turned to face her with wide eyes (Ha, payback once again!). His mouth opened and closed then of course, turned into a scowl, "Don't do that."  
Isabelle grinned, "Sorry, I couldn't help it!"  
He rolled his eyes dramatically, "I really think you could have," his scowl decidedly turned into more of a half-smile as he toyed with the rag.  
"I really couldn't, watching you do that… the Mycroft Holmes version of a man in his shorts wash his car."  
"Good lord, that's a frightening prospect," he commented, crouching at the leg of the piano to wipe it, earning a snort from his wife. "What, washing a car or wearing shorts?" Isabelle asked with a chuckle, walking over to him and looking over the practically dustless piano with some wistfulness that she'd never heard it be played. She understood the silent look he gave her, _"Both_".  
The young woman hummed thoughtfully, biting the inside of her cheek at his rounded shoulders and arched back. Mycroft stood up, "Do stop ogling me Isabelle, my parents will be here minutes," he didn't bother to even look at her. Isabelle took the defensive, "I wasn't _ogling_! Besides, even if I was you should be flattered."  
He tilted his head to smile at her, sliding his pale fingertips across one of the pale keys, "I am, but as I just mentioned, my parents and my _brother_ will arrive soon," he gave her a pointed look.  
"Foiled again," Isabelle huffed closing the divide between them awkwardly, with a baby still in her arms and a section of the instrument between them the kiss was short lived and not nearly as good a pay off as the others they'd shared. Isabelle was satisfied not to try again though.

Mycroft's phone burbled in his pocket and he pulled it free, "Ah yes, they've arrived," he mumbled, a frown barely tugging at his mouth. Isabelle sucked in a deep breath and released it before making her way to the front door. Mycroft followed behind after folding the rag he was holding and putting it away. A moment of indecision crossed his features before he decidedly took his umbrella from its stand to the right of the door and held it at his side. Isabelle wasn't sure if she should offer reassurance or roll her eyes at him.  
Mycroft opened the door just before either of his parents could knock.

Isabelle was startled when Mrs. Holmes immediately enveloped her in a hug, carefully avoiding squishing the infant, "Isabelle dear how are you?"  
"I'm uh, good," Isabelle smiled warmly, removed from one in-law's arms she moved into another's. Mycroft was given a hug and a peck on the cheek which he dutifully accepted though he had a look of undisguised dislike.  
The two Holmes parents were brought into the room followed by an unhappy looking Sherlock, his blue-gray eyes narrowed and his mouth curled into a petulant frown.  
"Hello Sherlock," Isabelle greeted pleasantly in hopes of diffusing the glare that passed between both brothers, the last thing she needed was a silent argument between them!  
"Sister dear," Sherlock said in a light (if not derisive) tone. Sherlock followed his parents, Isabelle had to quickly take her husband's arm before he beaned his brother over the head with his umbrella!  
"Behave," she scolded. He sighed, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek.

The group settled in the library, Mycroft brought down Alistair who was doted on for a moment and then Mrs. Holmes turned her attention on the sleeping Lillian.  
"She's absolutely beautiful," she said, a certain happiness on her features that could only be put down to dealing with a newborn.  
"Isn't she?" Isabelle agreed heartily.  
Sherlock wasn't paying much attention, focusing his gaze upon the rows of perfectly aligned books, "She looks like most babies," he commented blandly.  
"Yes and all babies are beautiful," Mrs. Holmes argued as Isabelle eased the new infant into her arms. Lillian stirred, opening big blue eyes. She decided very quickly that she didn't like being in a stranger's arms, and began fussing which sat at the edge of a full blown cry. Linda bounced up and down a little in attempts to calm her down, "There, there sweetheart," she cooed.  
"She's a loud one isn't she," commented Mr. Holmes, standing at his wife's shoulder, "Just like Sherlock."  
"Oh good Lord that boy had a set of pipes on him! Didn't you Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes shot her younger son a wry grin.  
"Mycroft was always the quieter one," added Mr. Holmes.

Isabelle had not trouble in believing this. She did wonder at their childhood. Mycroft shared little details, mostly unhappy ones, but that couldn't always be true. Part of her wondered just how hard it was to raise the two geniuses- maybe he wasn't giving them enough credit. Isabelle didn't say anything about this though; she instead let her shoulders tense up when Lillian began full blown wailing. The baby was deposited into her arms once again but Lily didn't really stop.  
"I'll just go see if she needs changing," she said with a falsely cheery voice. She made her way upstairs and into their bedroom where they had a changing table of sorts set up.  
The crib stood near it in all its glory. Isabelle remembered how difficult the setup had been for that thing!

Mycroft had been on the floor holding the instructions in one hand and a wooden leg in the other with a look of utter bemusement on his face, "I…I don't understand," he yelped. Of course he had been working on the thing for over two hours. Isabelle would have helped if she hadn't been heavily pregnant at the time.  
Eventually Sherlock was called in.  
And then some man named Lestrade (called Detective Inspector Lestrade by Mycroft).  
None of them could figure out what Vertical piece 63B was, or just why the whole thing seemed to _tilt._  
Finally Isabelle caved in and called for Bastian Kirk and Madelyn Ross who (though neither of them had children) quickly pieced the thing together.  
Her husband had stared for a moment and then said, "Ah."  
Sherlock waved it off as pointless information and quickly deleted the true identity of 63B.  
Lestrade scratched a hand through his hair, told Isabelle it was nice to meet her and please don't call him for anything like this again!

Isabelle easily changed her daughter's soiled nappy and strapped on a new one, satisfied she lifted Lillian into her arms. Her shoulders already felt strained, forced to hold a baby in her arms for hours without end. Mentally cursing her twig arms Isabelle made her way downstairs. She stopped just outside the door when she heard her name mentioned.

"…awfully thin Myc, is she alright?"  
"Perfectly, the pregnancy was just rather hard on her," Mycroft responded stiffly, his wife's health a sore subject with him. Sherlock added in a derisive comment about the lack of food in the house which was promptly ignored.  
"I'm just worried for her," Mrs. Holmes continued in a more hushed tone, "I do hope you've been watching her properly, with the nursing and the sleepless nights to come she's going to be under a lot of stress!"  
Isabelle heard her husband's footsteps, unable to see where he'd just moved. "I am fully aware Mother the rigors of raising a child," Mycroft spat, "It is nice to know you don't trust me to care for my own wife."  
"You know that's not what your mother meant," Mr. Holmes cut in, his usually soft voice a little sharp as though he was scolding a difficult child.  
"I'm only trying to help Myc, I only meant that sometimes it's hard to help people that don't want to be helped," Mrs. Holmes said in still a soothing tone. What an odd role reversal. Isabelle could just imagine Mycroft's fingers tightening around the umbrella as he prepared a rebuttal, "This is not like looking after Sherlock, I will not find Isabelle near death in some doss house-"  
"_Mycroft!_"

Alright, time to interrupt!

Isabelle walked in with a smile as though she hadn't just heard the argument, "_All better_!"

* * *

That night Isabelle was woken by the steady shriek of an upset Lillian. Groggily she waited, as her books so instructed her, ten minutes.  
A shift of the mattress alerted her to the fact that Mycroft was awake. A moment passed when Lily suddenly stopped crying.

Isabelle fell back asleep.

* * *

"Myc, I don't suppose you could take Lily to work with you?"

Mycroft, sitting at the breakfast table looking utterly tired, looked up with an incredulous stare, "I beg your pardon?"  
"Don't act like you're not going to have to do it at some point, you take Alistair with you sometimes! Madelyn wants me to take some notes at a meeting with Mr. Pembroke and I can't very well take a baby with me."  
She could tell he was going to interrupt with a "Why not?" so she cut him off, "Please Myc, it'll only be a few hours!"

So he (eventually) agreed.

When the meeting was finished and Isabelle went to the large very important looking building where her beloved husband worked. She passed a group of people that all stared at her. A tall blonde gasped, "Holy… I think that's Mrs. Holmes!"  
She tried not to let that freak her out, all of them staring at her like she was some sort of mythical creature. It did make her smile just a little to know that she was a legend to these people.  
Mycroft met her outside his office, "That's enough Pierce," he shot at the blonde.  
Isabelle felt something tighten inside of her stomach at the name though she couldn't for the life of her figure out why.  
She followed behind him into his office. Goodness, this was nothing like his home office! Cold and impersonal with a large painting behind his desk that spoke nothing of his tastes.  
Lily was on the floor on a thick quilt kicking out her legs and observing her surroundings with the awe of an infant.  
"How'd it go?" Isabelle asked, amusedly watching her husband bend down to pick up their daughter and hold her firmly against his chest.  
Mycroft huffed childishly, "I don't know if you've noticed My Dear, but people don't care about personal space when one is holding a baby."  
Isabelle giggled, "Oh God, how many?"  
"Thirty six!" he informed her, clearly displeased that she was finding the ordeal so funny, "They all delighted in telling me that our daughter is beautiful and she looks _just like_ _me_ even though she so clearly does not."  
Isabelle was given the baby, still giggling at her husband, "That's what people do, it's meant to make you feel proud."

Mycroft looked the two of them over and said decisively, "I don't need other people to make me feel proud of what I've accomplished, my daughter, and who've I so gladly married. I already am!"  
He broke the moment by turning around and muttering, "People are idiots."

* * *

Nearly two months passed and Lillian had still not fallen into a steady sleeping routine. Most of the books said that she would eventually, and then of course something would change and she would start waking up at night again. Isabelle had been anxiously waiting for the reprieve rather like someone waiting for the toilet when they _really_ needed to pee.

Late at night (sometime past midnight) Isabelle woke to the sound of Lily crying hysterically. She attempted to wait the allotted time, though her eyes got watery as stress overtook her muggy brain.  
She hadn't realized she was crying fully, with pathetic little hiccups, until Lily suddenly stopped.  
Through the dark the young woman ran her hand across the empty spot where her husband used to be.  
Wiping at her nose with her bare wrist, she slid over to his side and sat up. Hot tears trailed evenly down her thin face (her cheeks had filled out a little bit so she looked slightly less dead at this point at the very least).

"Y-you're meant to wait ten minutes you know."

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, but didn't say anything. Isabelle thought she could see him swaying gently back and forth. Further inspection proved him to be singing in a low whisper. She didn't recognize the song, but it was in French or…German? Probably both.  
Isabelle wasn't even all that upset, but she still continued to cry embarrassingly.  
"Myc?"  
Without having to ask, Mycroft extended one hand and helped her to her feet, "Shall we dance?" he joked. Isabelle couldn't help but laugh, though she was careful not to make it loud. Her hands circled his waist and she pulled in as close as she dared without squashing their child. His free hand found her hip, carefully adjusting Lillian so that she was safely tucked between them. They swayed back and forth through the silence, Mycroft unwilling to sing anymore much to Isabelle's disappointment.  
Isabelle sniffled, then sighed contentedly, "Do you know, you're really romantic?"  
"Am I?" he replied softly, stroking his thumb against a patch of bare skin just above her hip, Isabelle noted rather randomly that he had gotten very good at knowing when to touch her.  
"Do you not see what we're doing?" she smiled briefly. Mycroft let her rest her head against his left shoulder. "A trick to stop you from crying, hardly romantic," he sniffed.  
"Whatever you say," she mumbled against the fabric of his pajamas.

They stayed like this for quite some time. Lily had fallen asleep, looking utterly peaceful. Isabelle herself nearly fell asleep on her husband's shoulder, warm and utterly comfortable- until he gave her a light pinch with two fingers which woke her up enough to realize he was going to put their daughter back into her crib. He then turned to her, took her arm gently in his hand and led her to her side of the bed. Half asleep, she let him pull the blanket up to her chin and then slid in beside her.  
Isabelle sought his warm body again, pulling him close to her and hugging him like a teddy bear. He tensed briefly (he still did this sometimes no matter how close they were), likely feeling restricted (and were Isabelle more awake, she might have apologized for that), but he eventually relaxed and they fell asleep.

Isabelle was woken very early in the morning by Lily's calls for breakfast rather than attention, and she complied-first having to pry her husband off of her. She managed a roll maneuver which didn't shift him enough to wake him thankfully.  
Carefully she lifted Lily into her arms, "Hello sweetheart," she smiled. Isabelle knew she was going to have to talk to Mycroft about immediately going to her when she cried at night; it was an unhealthy strategy so far as she understood. But she also found it sweet, and very kind of him to at least _try_ and make things easier for her.  
Isabelle nursed Lillian, perched at the edge of their bed. She knew that she wasn't a naturally good mother like some people; she was clueless about so many things. To some extent this upset her; she wasn't like her mother who could have stopped you crying with only her smile! But she also firmly reminded herself that Mycroft had doubts about the emotional aspect of raising the child but was a natural when it came to holding her, changing her (though this deeply disgusted him), and stopping her crying.  
In time Isabelle would be needed, and she knew she could do it! Until then, she would endeavor not to lose it so often when Lily cried.

Hands found Isabelle's shoulders and began massaging putting Isabelle at ease, "Good morning," she chuckled. Mycroft hummed, "I take it you slept well."  
"I did," she sighed contentedly though she was still tired, "That feels good. Why are you doing that?" she couldn't help but question.  
His mouth connected with her neck, "I am attempting to be amorous," he replied smoothly.  
"Romantic you mean?" Isabelle laughed, managing to press a kiss against his fingers whilst still balancing their baby in one arm.  
"Exactly," he replied, "Am I succeeding?"  
Isabelle nodded, "Yes, very much so."  
Mycroft continued like this for a few moments more before he pulled away from her in favor of getting dressed…

* * *

Lillian turned the page of the diary only to find it blank. What? It ended there? Why? There were still quite a few empty pages. Casually she flipped through them all in hopes of at least a sketch, or some sign that maybe she found a new diary. Nothing!  
It ended with "_Mycroft stopped kissing me, much to my disappointment _(Yuck!)_ to go get dressed. I put Lily back to bed so I could have breakfast; I'm excited I get to start regular work hours today! Woohoo! Mycroft so kindly has offered to take Lily today so that I can get used to working in an office again. So happy!"  
_Lily stood up with purpose and marched inside, letting the diary drop onto the table. With practiced ease she pulled out her mobile and sent out a text to her father.

**Mum didn't finish her diary! Is there another one – L**

It took an inordinately long time for her father to reply, he was a slow text-er and he hated doing it.

**What does the date say on her last entry Dearheart?- M.H.**

Lily frowned.

**It just says Thursday- L**

The second she sent out the text her heart jumped, "Oh…"

**I'll leave you to your deductions- M.H.**

* * *

**This is it guys, one more chapter to go! Again I apologize for just how late this was, I got stuck and had to rewrite some stuff *Shrug*  
The argument between Mycroft and his parents came out of nowhere, I apologize for the angst!**

**I'm finding myself a little bit addicted to Isabelle and Mycroft fluffiness, so you get two parts fluff and one prat angst. Lol**

***Can I ask a favor? Could I get some reviews on my last chapter? I'll settle for just one! It's just that I've finished a few stories, and people haven't done that...it's not really fun. I hope this doesn't sound like begging but "PLEEEASE!"  
Hm, yeah it's a big pathetic all well. LOL***

**"All lives end. All hearts are broken...Caring is not an advantage"**

**In which Isabelle dies and Mycroft struggles to cope. We also get several POV's such as "Gloria Long, Sherlock Holmes, and Bastian Kirk" ;)  
FEELS INCOMING! (I hope)**


	33. Chapter 32- Not an Advantage

***Quick warning for all y'all. **

**Mild mentions of gore (blood, broken bones etc.)  
Mild swearing: I use the "F word" once, but am willing to take it out if it bothers you- I myself ****_despise_**** swearing even though I use it (mildly) in my writing. ;)**

**I think that's it, enjoy!**

* * *

**All lives end, all hearts are broken… Caring is not an advantage-**

Lillian Holmes found herself pacing in agitation. Why did this matter to her!? Lily had-throughout her fifteen years of life- proven to be a bit of a selfish, uncaring person. Certainly she found people she could share friendships with, but she always ended up manipulating them to quell the never ending boredom- she though herself very much like her Uncle in that regard (even though he'd lately been gathering more and more real friends as time went on).  
But as soon as she started hearing the stories of Isabelle and reading about her in that diary… it had been like finding something extraordinary in the ordinary. She cared!

When her father came home Lily stormed up to him and shoved the diary in his face (as best she could being short of stature), "Do you know what she said at the end of this thing?!"  
Mycroft easily moved her hand away from his face and looked down at her with disinterest, "How could I?"  
Lily flipped through the pages of the old book and found the last one with words on it, "Blahde-blah, 'Mycroft so kindly has offered to take Lily today so that I can get used to working in an office again. _So happy_!' Seriously, it's like she's taunting me!"  
Her father scoffed, though a strange look crossed his features, "Don't be ridiculous. Your mother did not write that just to mess with you Lillian."  
"Then why did she write it?" Lily snarled, flapping the book before she found it in her to reign in her anger, "It's not fair…"  
"Rarely is anything ever fair," her father sighed, taking the diary gently from his daughter's hands, "I can understand being frustrated by this, but I don't want you to let this get too far under your skin when there is little use to it. Your mother died in a car crash, it was sudden and it was terrible. What else is there to know?"

Lily ran a hand through her blonde hair, "I dunno… _Don't know_," she corrected when he gave her a pointed look, "How she felt when she died? What were her last words? Who was that Pierce guy?" she added the last as a joke even though her father wouldn't in the least bit get it. He seemed confused but looked past it to say, "Would you be satisfied if I laid out our last conversation?"  
Lily thought about this. It wouldn't exactly answer her questions but it would be…something. So she agreed with a careless shrug for show, "Yeah, sure."

* * *

Isabelle sat at her desk, typing an E-mail for her boss. Sitting for what seemed like hours on end she found the slightly uncomfortable but she couldn't bring herself to stop until she had finished her writing. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang. Quickly she picked it up and placed it against her ear, "Hello, you've reached the office of Madelyn Ross, this is her secretary how may I help you?"

"My, how professional of you."

Isabelle groaned resting her chin on her hand, "Myc," she huffed, "This is my work phone you're not meant to call me on my work phone!"  
"You turned off your mobile," he shot back. Isabelle thought she could hear the low cry from Lillian in the background. Her heart went out to her poor husband trying to work and care for a child at the same time. Still, "You'd think you'd take a hint," she smirked. She could just imagine him rolling his eyes dramatically at her, "And for the reason I am likely calling," he replied, "I need you to come pick up your children."  
"Our, Myc, _our_ children! God that's annoying. Why do you need me to pick them up?" she questioned, searching the room for anyone that might be listening. The last thing she wanted was for her boss to find out about a personal call during work hours.  
"Something of importance has come up and I'm afraid I can't bring a baby into the oncoming meeting."  
Isabelle tried not to think too hard on that one, she would likely burst out laughing!  
"When does the meeting start?" Isabelle asked. The clock said 5:49 PM which was nearly still a good hour and a half before she usually left. On the other hand Madelyn was a very forgiving woman, especially to Isabelle. If she needed to pick up her kids then she would likely be ok with it.

With a heavy sigh- purely good natured- Isabelle agreed, "Ok, ok, I'll come pick them up I need to walk around a bit anyways, I'm sore," she shifted her sitting position.  
"Does it hurt very much? We do still have some minor pain medications-"  
"No, I'm ok! Thanks," she interrupted quickly, "It's not that bad. I'll be over probably by Six or Six-fifteen is that ok?"  
"Perfectly," he said smoothly, "Thank you My Dear."  
Isabelle added, "No problem Myc, I love you!" before he hung up.

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait, _hold it_! Was…was she in a car accident when she was coming to pick up me and Alistair?!"

Mycroft looked at his hands, still clutching her diary, "Yes."  
"You've got to be kidding me, so this was my fault?" Lily yelped, looking terribly uncomfortable with this revelation, "I mean, its Alistair's fault too of course we can't forget that but w-"

"Lillian!"

Lily stopped her tirade, crossing her arms and taking on a petulant expression. Mycroft messaged his temple with his free hand, "It was not your fault, if anything it was mine for calling her."  
The young teenager bit her bottom lip, an action reminiscent of her deceased mother, "W-was it? Your fault?" she looked slightly relieved that the sting had been taken away from her and placed solely upon her father.  
He sighed, "No. It wasn't your mother's or anyone else's rather the man that hit her."

* * *

Isabelle wondered if she should have seen it coming. Perhaps she didn't look both ways enough or just thought that she had? Maybe she'd misinterpreted the green light or she'd drifted too far past the line?

_What does it matter now?_

No. It was that truck driver's fault it had to have been. He'd skipped a red light and hit her on the driver's side. The screech of metal, the utter terror that filled her heart and the intense pain that followed.

Isabelle could hardly breathe, she couldn't turn her head and she couldn't see anything but smoke and the slight dash of remaining sunlight. She couldn't _feel _anything but the sluggish trail of blood making its way down her face from her forehead, her nose, her mouth…  
Isabelle knew that not being able to feel the pain was a bad thing. _A very, very_ bad thing! She tried helplessly to move her hands, thinking that her seatbelt might have been causing her restricted breathing- but she couldn't even do that. Her finger twitched pathetically, but that was it.  
Time seemed to pass horrifically slow as she waited for the wail of sirens and the people that would come to free her.

Mycroft. She wanted Mycroft. Anyone would do really, but Mycroft especially would know how to…how to _save_ her. A tear suddenly trailed down her cheek alongside the red stream, followed by another. She was pretty sure that her arm was bleeding, what she could see of herself was cut and bruised every which way.  
Still she cried, and when a sob escaped her parted lips and a small collection of saliva and blood bubbled out of her mouth she realized that she didn't have very long.  
Her car was in absolute shambles. Not that that mattered. It still flitted past Isabelle's consciousness what little consciousness she still had. She thought she could hear voices outside, some panicked some professional.

If she were able to she might have called out. For the second time she tried desperately to turn her head. Maybe her neck was broken? If that was true, how was she still alive? Isabelle managed to blink, having the force of will not to altogether close her eyes. She'd watched enough television to know that it never went well if the dying closed their eyes. People would scream, "Just stay with me!" and she could imagine Mycroft standing over her, holding her hand and demanding the same thing in a firm and commanding tone.  
But of course he wasn't there, and he likely wouldn't be there ever again.

_Get a hold of yourself Isabelle!_

She couldn't. She really couldn't! Isabelle sniffled pathetically and a little bit painfully, terrified moaning sounds passing between her lips.  
If she was dying, shouldn't her life pass before her eyes? Her mind felt too foggy for anything like that to happen, though she did think sadly of the life she'd be leaving behind if she wasn't rescued.  
A wonderful job, her friends, her family…  
Mycroft and the gentle way he held her,  
Lillian, whom she barely knew and really wanted to,  
Alistair, who was such a smart little boy!  
Isabelle was aware she was working herself up at this point, her breath hitching and her legs shifting in the small space between her seat and the steering wheel. The airbag hadn't gone off. _Why hadn't the airbag gone off?!  
_If this was her end, what had her last words been? Had she been singing with the radio? No… Mycroft, she'd said something to Mycroft was there nothing in between? She'd said she loved him. _Thank you…._  
The loud screech of metal being pried apart and the voices calling for her were left unheard.

Isabelle had already drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Lillian later that night sat on her bed playing with a lock of her golden hair. She stared blankly at the wall. Her fingers caught a snag and she yelped when she accidently tugged at it. Muttering a few unsavory words that she'd heard from a selection of her peers, Lily threw out her short legs and sighed dramatically.  
There was nothing left to know about her mother. No information she could possible want! But she felt unsatisfied.  
Knocking the toes of her shoes together Lily considered who else she could go to. Her hand found her phone again and she scrolled through the very short list of contacts.

**Daddy **(Yep, tried that)**,  
Alistair **(No way!), **  
Uncle Sherlock **(Always an option, though he might not be open to sharing), **  
Bastian **(Definitely open to sharing),  
**Nero **(A relative and Lily's only real friend in her opinion. He wouldn't know anything.)

And that was where the list ended. Lily let her feet slide off the bed and onto the floor. Ok, so maybe there were a few things she could try…

* * *

**Gloria:**

Gloria had resented Isabelle from day one.

Her father had taken her and Maria by the hand and helped them onto an ugly plastic chair so that they could see. Maria had squealed about how adorable she was. Gloria had wrinkled her tiny nose and said, _"What is it?" _And she knew, obviously. This was her new baby sister- the new nuisance that would steal love from their parents and that Gloria would someday have to look after. Isabelle became Izzy immediately in Gloria's mind and she wanted nothing to do with her.  
Lillian Long had frowned, and the dark haired twin had found the presence of mind to call her new sibling cute. That she _"love, love, loved her!"_ and that terrible look of unease fell away from her mother's face.  
Even at five, both twins had decided that making their mum unhappy was the worst thing in the world. Lillian was the best parent they could have hoped for. She didn't yell, she didn't talk down (like their dad did sometimes), and she spent all her free time proving that she wasn't just their mother- she was their friend!

Isabelle proved to be exactly what Gloria had expected: Needy, attention grabbing, pathetic, and useless- the works. The young girl threw a fit whenever her mother left for work (Which in hindsight might have meant she knew more about their mother's health than any of them though- but it was put down to their father's untimely passing).  
Their father died and more and more of Isabelle's time had to be shoved into the twin's laps. _"Oh girls, could you watch Isabelle while I go grocery shopping?"_ _"Gloria, I have a headache could you keep Isabelle quiet?"_ "_Girls why don't you take your sister to the park?"_  
Out of love of their mother Gloria and Maria did these things.

But that also meant Isabelle was eased into the coming abuse.

Gloria hadn't thought of it that way. She was stating _blank fact_. Isabelle was Izzy, a pathetic nothing that looked like a freckled scarecrow. Maria, ever a follower (and also harboring resentment that grew with each passing month), had joined in copying everything her sister had said.  
But Isabelle had-to some degree- fought back. She hadn't allowed what she viewed as an injustice go by without some form of objection.  
The only thing that truly got to her was the word "Accident". It had been a way of saying that their dear mother had never wanted her, and only tolerated her because she was a good person. This was fragile spot in her armor, her _Achilles heel_ if you will.  
And being a child, Gloria took it and ran. Because she felt she needed it! She _needed_ to feel better about all of this. She _needed_ to play in the park with her friends while stupid Izzy sat alone on the park bench because _she_ said she had to. It felt wonderful, it felt freeing! She took the burden and shoved her aside. And all they had to do was keep it away from Lillian Long's attention.

Time passed and suddenly their mother had Cancer. Bloody stupid Cancer! And she might have had it for a longer time than they'd first been told.  
They had to move to London to seek better treatment. But the problem seemingly went away a year later.  
When Isabelle turned fifteen it came back so hard their mother had to be hospitalized.

Gloria couldn't take it.

The one person she looked up to was certain to die; the one person who gave her unconditional love was fading away like a sunset!  
Isabelle had just found a boyfriend (who Gloria couldn't remember the name of for the life of her) but had put him aside to spend every moment she could at the Hospital. She would offer in that shy way of hers, all stutter-y and annoying, _"I t-talked to mum today. Sh-she said she might want to uh, see you tomorrow or any time r-really…_"  
But Gloria couldn't do it. And Maria, wouldn't. If her mind had been on anyone but herself, the dark haired twin might have told her sister to _"Just fucking go see their mother already! Just because I won't doesn't mean you shouldn't!"_ But she didn't, and both suffered.

Lillian died. And that was when everything went to pot. Gloria felt emotionally unstable, but hell if she was allowed that because she had to feed her fifteen year old sister who couldn't get her own life!  
Having Maria help was what settled their relationship as stereotypically close twins in retrospect. They had to rely entirely upon each other.  
You know who they couldn't rely on though? Ikkle Izzy who cried herself to sleep every night loud enough so that no one could get any _stupid sleep_!  
Gloria discovered after their mother's death though, that something had broken in Isabelle.  
Her boyfriend left her, and she had moaned about being alone. Gloria told her to shut up, and Isabelle did. She apologized, and left the room.

Done! Easy as that. Isabelle had lost her will to fight!

A normal person would have built their sister up, tried to get her confident again (well, confident for Isabelle still wasn't very much but you get the idea). What did the twins do? Not that- she could tell you right now.  
Isabelle postponed getting her driver's license because she thought she wasn't good enough, because _they said_ she wasn't! Isabelle got a job near their home, at a café, because they said she should - and that she couldn't do any better! Gloria filled the void with this, and then as time went on let it slip past her fingers into dull-nothingness. Something she did because it was Izzy, not because it made her feel better about being what she essentially thought of as a caregiver.

Isabelle needed to conform and do what they said.

But a throwaway "You should cut your hair" proved there was still defiance within Isabelle.  
"I won't…I can't, I like it. I think… I think it's the only thing pretty about me". _The little shit.  
_That was what would later be the turning point for all of them. Long hair. Stupid as that sounded.

Roger Ellingham. Gloria had fiercely attacked Izzy after Roger Ellingham. Isabelle had taken in his sweet words and coy smile, she'd taken in the way he seemed to put her first (_seemed_ being the opportune word) and she'd fallen in love. Or that's what she said; Gloria hadn't put too much care into her sister's love life. None. God that was a frightening subject that no one wanted to think about!  
Roger left for about a month without telling Isabelle, then came back and was "surprised" that she didn't know that they were broken up. Isabelle would later confess that at that moment she had literally _begged_ for Roger not to leave her. Good God, she was pathetic! (And whether it was their fault meant nothing.) Gloria told her so, Maria honed in on the fact that it was Isabelle's fault that Roger left.

She had assumed that Isabelle would never date again. All the better, Gloria thought, for her to work harder and make more money for survival and shit!  
And then _he_ came. The "_Freak-show albatross"_. Isabelle had only mentioned him once in passing before he was given a name and a real date happened, _"Ah, Friday! I wonder if he wants Lemon Poppy seed or our new Strawberry swirl". _And there had been a cute little smile, followed by a reprimanding _"Pull yourself together Isabelle!" _  
What was she supposed to take from that? True love? Well she didn't, none of them did until Isabelle came home from a date and danced around the living room.

You know what happened next. Gloria felt the same about it all the way through- that the scary man that came by in his three piece suits was never going to last, a beanpole albatross FREAK.  
But they'd gotten married, and they'd adopted a son and had a daughter named Lillian (A reminder to Gloria that she wasn't married, and had missed her chance to title her child after her parent. Shit.) Isabelle would sometimes call and talk about her life with the utmost joy (another reminder that Gloria had very little going for her at the moment beyond moving into a new more expensive flat with Maria).

And then Isabelle died.

_Just like that._

Gloria stared into the void known as her bedroom wall, with the spindly little crack that had been obviously covered poorly by plaster.  
She thought about Isabelle, and about all the things she'd done wrong. About how Isabelle had accused her of being an abusive monster (not her words, but anyone could tell that that was what she meant) and yet still invited both of them to the wedding.  
Isabelle was like that. She took the hurt that you caused, and got upset, but she never really held it over you. Maybe that's why her marriage worked so well, why she could let his _obvious_ failings go so easily. Because she was Isabelle, and she could love you… she could love your flaws and your bright spots in equal measure even though she might put up a fuss over them.  
Gloria felt loved by her sister, even though she didn't love Isabelle. Even though she _couldn't _love Isabelle back.

At the funeral, Gloria walked beside Maria and took in the small surroundings. She was talked to by a squat (if not professional looking) black woman who was nothing but polite very prompt in her speech patterns named Madelyn Ross. A strange brown haired man (couldn't have been older than 25) named Bastian who gave a bright smile despite the sadness in his eyes, and a petite blonde who dimly asked how they knew Isabelle- to name a few.

They'd later split up to cover more ground. Maria made a beeline towards that curly haired gentleman standing awkwardly in the corner, dabbing uselessly at her watery eyes with a piece of Kleenex.  
Gloria unconsciously found her way to the Al-er, Mycroft looking tall, thin, and well-dressed per usual... also looking a bit like his life-force had been removed with a giant vacuum.  
An elderly couple was holding Lillian not far from him, cooing sadly at the unknowing infant. A small brown haired boy staring at his feet stood beside, not sure what to do with his hands he kept tucking them into his pockets then removing them and then crossing his arms and sticking them into his pockets again.  
Gloria wasn't sure what she was doing walking up to Mycroft, nor did she know what she was going to say.  
"I'm sorry for your loss" didn't seem to cover it. Huh. Their loss? Yeah right. Gloria concluded painfully that Isabelle had been lost to her _day one._

A pair of unsettling gray eyes turned on her, his mouth formed a disapproving line. It was a little bit freaky that Gloria suddenly cared about his disapproval, like that was some super power he carried around with him _"I am here to save the day by making those nasty bank robbers feel horrifically guilty with just one look! HAHA!"  
_Along those lines she also noticed that all grief has disappeared from his face. Looking into his eyes was like looking into a black hole.  
"How are you holding up Miss Long?" he inquired politely. Gloria nearly choked at his casual tone, "Worse than you apparently," she shot back, forcing herself not to think of that moment…that call. _Isabelle Holmes was in an accident._  
"Ah yes. Well, you did know her better than I ever could," demurred the tall man. The dark haired twin swore several times in her head and once out loud because this was both a misdirection of his feelings on the matter and an attack on the way they had treated his wife.  
"Yeah, guess I did," Gloria mumbled, running a hand through her mud-colored hair.

He allowed a tight smile that spoke volumes towards his feelings of her. He thought her a selfish coward, that's what that smile said. Gloria wanted to smack him upside the head. Instead she thought to clamp her hands beneath her upper arms.  
A wail erupted from the baby in the old woman's arms, turning most attention to Lillian. A crease formed between Mycroft's eyebrows, concern crossing his blank face for only a moment. The woman (who was probably the Albatross's mother) rocked the infant a few times and the crying ceased.  
Gloria was relieved, Lily was inordinately loud.

"Now that I am thinking of it Miss Long," Mycroft spoke interrupting the blessed silence rudely, "Regarding your connection with my children," his hand slid into one of his pockets and removed a small white card and from another a silver pen. Using the flat of his palm he wrote upon the card, then tucked the pen into his pocket. Gloria was handed the card with two phone numbers written on it.  
"The first is my personal number; the second is for my office. Please call -at minimum- an hour in advance to set up a time wherein you may see them."  
Gloria tried yet again not to smack him, her face turning red, "How dare you!"  
"How dare I…_what_ Miss Long?" the corners of his mouth upturned. _Smug son of a_\- Gloria sucked in a calming breath, "What's to stop me from just coming by whenever I like?"  
He seemed to consider this for a short time then said coolly, "I imagine you will be tackled to the ground, searched, and incarcerated before I would even realize you were there, and I'm sure neither of us…or rather, _you_ don't want that."

_Ohoho_, the smile he gave her was full of innocence Gloria couldn't help but chuckle bitterly at this. Perhaps she was going soft but her anger dissipated. She was too weary at this point to stay mad at anyone, as much as she'd like to and as much as she'd done in the past. Her hand found her short hair, "Look, Holmes," she conceded to using at least his last name for the sake of her dead sibling, "I don't think I'm doing that but whatever, thank you," she shoved the card into her pocket with her other hand.  
"You're welcome," he replied cordially, "Is there anything else you would like to discuss?" he added. Gloria shook her head, "Nope."  
He nodded his head in a goodbye before he made his way across the room. Gloria realized that he had no real destination in mind as he stared blankly at his surroundings.

Pathetic.

Gloria hated him, and she was quite certain he hated her. But she did feel the slightest touch sorry for him.  
Maria made her way back from…what was his name? Maria came back from "Curly" looking worse for wear, "I-I don't think he's interested," she mumbled. Gloria had the presence of mind to take her sister's hand and squeeze before it was tucked within the safety of her pocket, "He's the Albatross' brother why would you care?" she consoled. Maria shrugged, "He's got great cheekbones."  
The blonde twin hugged her self and sighed as she turned her brown eyes upon the table of pictures.  
"D'you think we should have called her or-or talked to her?" Maria asked, looking teary and upset. Maria was always the soft-hearted of the two; much like Isabelle she was very sensitive.  
"You know we wouldn't have anything to talk about, Izzy was going her own way," Gloria shrugged, "It's not like this is our fault!"  
Maria shook her head, "Of course not, I just feel so…guilty!"  
Gloria shook her head, something clogging her throat, "Well don't, ok? This isn't like Mum. It's different, and we're different and Isabelle was different!" she was aware she was babbling and with much concentration she forced herself to stop, "Look, I'm going to head home… you can stay or _whatever_ but I have nothing left to say."

Maria went back with her because Gloria was her only ride.

**Bastian Kirk:**

Bastian had always loved Isabelle! Er, as a friend of course. She was sweet and smiley and gentle, always willing to talk. She was always so much kinder than her interminably cold husband (of whom Bastian also liked).  
When he'd heard of the crash it had been like a lightning strike, startling and painful. He'd needed to brace himself against the car he always drove, trying not to cry.  
Isabelle was so young, with two healthy children. Everything had been going so right! Or so Bastian had seen it. Maybe he'd been wrong? If Isabelle had been a good liar maybe Bastian could have convinced himself of this as some last ditch effort to save his emotional state. But no, Isabelle was horrific at it. You could so plainly see every emotion pass her face.

The thing was…as sad as he was to hear of Isabelle's passing, it was nothing like watching Mr. Holmes after the fact.  
The dear man seemed like he was in some sort of haze, every so often stopping mid-sentence to stare blankly at nothing at all. He would hold his umbrella in an unbelievably tight grip and tell Bastian to go to places that didn't even exist and then he would correct himself with a look of pure confusion as to why he'd just said something so utterly ridiculous.  
It had lasted about a week. And then everything had gone back to normal.  
Bastian had gone through enough to know that this wasn't right. He knew that people got over the loss of their loved ones differently- it depended on the person. But Mycroft behaved suddenly as though his wife had never existed!  
Bastian had been there when he took Mr. Holmes to the crash; Isabelle was already dead and laid out upon a stretcher. Mycroft's hand had found hers and he had kissed her knuckles reverently as he muttered something that Bastian couldn't hear, then he'd stepped back and watched as she was carried away from him. There hadn't been tears (from Mr. Holmes that is, several stragglers looked very upset at the revelation) but the way he carried himself was that of a man that had lost… everything.

Bastian knew that his boss would have to get over Isabelle at some point ("Get over" being a bit too strong a phrase for Bastian's liking) but now was not the time!  
So, when his boss ordered to be driven to Baker Street with a file in his hand, Bastian decided he would use the time given.  
They'd gone a ways before the young man cleared his throat and cast a glance back at his employer, "Eh, Mr. 'olmes can I talk to you about something?"  
He looked up from his phone which he had been typing at slowly, "It depends, is it important?" Bastian could tell he was being "deduced" even without looking. He didn't dare roll his eyes in real life, though they did a doozy of a roll in his mind.  
"I think it is sir, don' know about you though," he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. Mycroft contemplated this for a moment, "Oh very well."  
Bastian grinned that cheesy sideways grin of his, pleased to have found his opening, "It's 'bout Mrs. 'olmes-"

"Oh, I see… No."

Bastian blinked, "Sir?"  
"I've changed my decision," Mycroft said tersely, "No you may not speak to me about my late wife."  
The driver blew out a breath slowly. The order taker inside of him told him not to press the issue, he _reeaaally_ didn't want to lose his job! Great benefits and all that. But his mind trailed back to his own loss and he mustered up his courage, "If you don' mind sir, I'm going to speak anyways."  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and spoke in jest, "I could have you shot."  
The younger man chuckled at this, "That you could," he conceded, "But you won't."  
"No, it's so hard to find competent drivers these days," Mr. Holmes spoke dryly. Bastian took this as another opening, "I was just wondering how you were holding up Mr. 'olmes."  
"Fine. Is that all?"  
"No sir!" the driver had to stop himself from throwing up his hands. He eased the car to a stop at a red light and managed to look back at Mycroft without feeling unsafe about it, "It's just that I haven't seen you look very…upset."  
This earned him two raised eyebrows, "Oh?"  
"an' I'm just concerned that you're keeping it all inside sir."

Silence followed this statement. Mycroft looked as though he might just make the kill order, and Bastian winced. He was such a blunt speaker sometimes! Eventually a smile split across his boss's face and Bastian couldn't tell if it was real or not. He'd once played a game with Isabelle; they'd wait outside for Mycroft before the two of them set off for work and Isabelle would point at him and whisper, "Real" or "Not real" whenever her husband smiled at them. Bastian was given a _litany_ of false smiles but Isabelle was only given about _two_.  
"You're worries are without foundation Mr. Kirk I am perfectly fine," he said smoothly, "The light is green."  
Bastian spun around and pressed his foot against the accelerator. What seemed like forever went by before the chauffer felt free to speak again, "But why are you just fine Mr. 'olmes? Your wife just…passed on," he cleared his throat a blush crossing his face when he realized his impertinence but he kept going, "No one would blame you if you cried a little!"

Mycroft let his phone drop to the seat beside him, "Tell me Mr. Kirk, am I not grieving according to your standards?" he snapped.  
"That's not what I meant sir…"  
His boss smiled icily, "I see, you meant that I am not grieving according the _world's_ standards? How selfish of me, I shall just have a good weep right now shall I?" he tilted his head. Bastian tensed, "No sir. I only meant that…that you shouldn't keep your emotions bottled up 'cause it's unhealthy!" his grip tightened on the wheel, "I didn't mean you should cry sir, I'll just be quiet now sir…"  
"Yes," Mycroft replied stiffly, "Please do."

Well, that was unpleasant and had gotten Bastian absolutely nowhere! An angry heat spread through his cheeks and burned the back of his neck. It was hard to make him mad; the driver was a kindly soul that accepted everyone's faults and let other people's cruel words roll right past him. But the idea of Mycroft not acknowledging how truly terrible Isabelle's death was? That was unbelievable!  
With no thought to the consequences Bastian pulled the car off to the side of the road about three blocks away from Baker Street. Mycroft-who had gathered his phone into his hands yet again- turned his gray eyes upon the man, "Why have we stopped?" he demanded.  
Bastian unbuckled his seat belt and spun around so that he was looking at his employer straight on. Much to his surprise his voice came out soft, "Did you know, that I had a sister?"  
"Persephone Kirk she died two years ago. _Why have we stopped_?" he persisted. Bastian wasn't even slightly surprised that he knew about Persephone, there had obviously been a comprehensive background check before he was hired for the job.  
"Yeah, she did. I knew it was comin' too, I took care of her…" Bastian smiled brokenly, "Seph was one in a million Mr. 'olmes just like your Isabelle. She'd always tell these outrageous stories…"  
"I will climb out of this car right now."  
"You really wanna walk all the way to your brother's flat sir?" Bastian raised an eyebrow. Mycroft sighed, resignedly crossing his arms over his chest, "What is your point Mr. Kirk?"

"My point is that I was totally lost when Seph died, for months I swear I cried myself to sleep. I tried holding it in but it all seemed to explode on me when I was alone."  
Mycroft glared, "Why are you so insistent upon this point?"  
"Mr. 'olmes, it's only been a week a-and you loved her!"  
Mycroft threw off his seatbelt and clicked open the door, "This, Mr. Kirk is none of your business," it came out choked and angry, Bastian nearly reeled backwards in realization of how worked up his boss truly was. He watched dumbstruck as Mycroft climbed free of the vehicle with a file in his other hand, "Come pick me up when I call or you will be _fired._"  
The door was slammed behind him and Bastian was forced to watch as his boss trekked across the concrete walkway.  
That could have gone better. The driver slumped back into a sitting position. Well, he was going to see his brother; maybe Sherlock would convince his brother that it was ok to… uuuuh, no. This was going to just get worse wasn't it.

**Sherlock:**

"You walked here?"

Sherlock took in his brother: slightly out of breath and entirely irate. The younger of the two smirked when Mycroft plopped a manila file down upon his table, not responding to his brother's question. Without preamble the elder sat in the spare chair, his right hand flexing in realization that he'd forgotten his dear umbrella.  
Sherlock scooped up the file and poked through it, forgoing the early refusal to take whatever his brother had brought. In truth, he wasn't sure how to go about their relationship now that Isabelle was dead. Certainly Mycroft looked like everything was back to normal, but was it? Was Sherlock meant to comfort his brother? How does one comfort someone that knows every technique known to man? No, that was out of the question. Right?  
Sherlock had only on a few occasions come across his brother experiencing a truly soul crushing emotion, after he'd nearly drowned when they were children being one. Sherlock had heard his brother wake up from terrible nightmares and cry himself to sleep afterwards. He'd gone about the house looking perfectly normal, brushing off his parent's concern as though it had been nothing. Putting them at ease while he suffered by himself.  
It faded over time though didn't it? Perhaps waiting was the tactic to take.

Sherlock was not good at this, so as he sat down in the chair opposite his brother he said in the most awkward way possible, "So, how are you?"  
Mycroft blinked, "Fine," his brow furrowed, "_Why_?"  
The younger shrugged, "It seemed appropriate to ask," he supplied simply, crossing one leg smoothly over the other and bopping his foot.  
The elder looked skeptical, "Did it? Oh come now Sherlock, we've never bothered with the social niceties before. Will you take the case?"  
Sherlock smirked crookedly, "Say please?" he teased, tempted to collect his violin and play something that might make one's ear bleed just for the sake of normalcy.  
"Now you ask too much brother mine," Mycroft scoffed, barely a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Well, everything _seemed_ normal enough. Sherlock had clearly overestimated his brother's capacity for a loving relationship; Isabelle couldn't have been more than a cute little convenience he kept around. But then, he remembered the call he'd received on the day of the crash. He'd never heard his brother sound so…broken.  
Tapping his fingers against the arm rest the detective managed a half shrug, "Your choice."  
Mycroft slid his palm against his pant leg carelessly then seemed to send away imaginary dust on his fingertips, "I don't believe I'll stoop so low as to beg. Just know that this case is highly important and your help would be greatly appreciated."  
Sherlock scoffed, "I will take it as long as there is no Knighthood in it for me."  
"Hardly," Mycroft concluded with a smirk. With some effort he stood up, looking bone weary now that he'd been given time to relax. Sherlock's gaze trailed after his brother's retreating form.  
"Let's just say that you will get the Knighthood if you don't," the older brother winked, he re-buttoned his suit and flattened an imaginary crease.  
He made his way to the door, and Sherlock felt guilt overtake him. Sherlock hated the feeling! There seemed no reason for it either; feeling bad was something that got in the way of successfully manipulating information from someone. Luckily this experience was a rare one.

Still at that moment he found himself saying, "If it is any consolation. I liked her."

Mycroft halted his progress and turned around, "Why would that be of any consolation Sherlock?" he demanded sharply. Startled by his brother's exclamation Sherlock stood up, "Merely stating fact. I approved."  
"Of course Sherlock I'm forever seeking your approval," Mycroft mocked. The younger threw up his hands, "I was paying you a compliment. Take it."  
"Alright I will, you liked Isabelle," Mycroft persisted with his terse speech, something was nagging at him. Sherlock made his way to the table where he fingered the file so as to keep his hands occupied, "I believe it an extraordinary feat considering. She did punch me."  
This garnered a real smile from his brother much to Sherlock's annoyance, "She did, didn't she," he singsonged.  
"She decided I had been cruel to you," Sherlock rolled his eyes; "Her swing was terrible. She didn't even give me a nose bleed."  
"Yes well, she was yet to start her weight training," Mycroft managed his usual breathy chuckle. Sherlock could see the wistfulness pass over his brother's features. He missed her. How hateful.

Sherlock's tongue slid across his back teeth, "She did buy me that dagger for Christmas, disguised as a wooden candy cane," he added. He'd never had a reason to use it, but it remained in a drawer in his room. Mycroft's eyebrows went up, "Did she?"  
"She asked my advice on what to get you. I told her you weren't interested in Christmas."  
"And rightfully so," the elder concluded with a nod, "I do believe that was the year she drove me insane trying to get me in the holiday spirit."  
Sherlock snorted, "And did she succeed?"  
A pause followed that question, clearly intended for a joke answer. But Mycroft let his hands slide easily into his pockets and he responded, "Do you know…she did."

It was by far the sappiest, most saccharinely sweet thing Sherlock had ever heard. And it had just come out of his brother's mouth! What was the world coming to?!  
"This, as it seems, is what happens when I don't get enough sleep," Mycroft concluded with a wrinkled nose. Sherlock waved it off willingly, hoping to look past it.  
He wasn't quite sure how to continue the conversation without it feeling awkward and forced, so with relative ease he found his violin and began plucking at the strings.  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and took up an exasperated expression, "I had best be off Brother Mine," he waved his hand as though his umbrella was in it, "Good luck with your detecting."  
"Mycroft," Sherlock nodded.

A relative ease had fallen over his brother, as though something had been released. Sherlock prided himself on being the one to have done it. Of course that fact would leave his mind for the truly delectable case now sitting upon his table.

**Mycroft:**

Mycroft had been holding Lillian when it happened, he knew that. And he'd still been holding her when he, five minutes later, heard the news.

Lily giggled; trying to shove her hands into her father's smiling mouth as he held her up to him. With a forceful swing of the door Anthea entered looking distressed; usually very cool under pressure this was a bit disconcerting. Alistair barely looked up from his maths homework but even he knew right away that something was wrong.  
"Sir," Anthea said in an exhale.  
Mycroft lowered Lily back down into his arms, his previously happy expression turned serious, "What is it?"  
In all likelihood it was about the oncoming meeting, something had come up that would mean he'd have to leave Lily to Alistair while he rushed off to fix whatever had arisen. Mycroft had let this settle inside of him as the problem he could easily take control over. What he received instead though was Anthea's hardened stare and, "It's your wife sir."

Details weren't even needed, Mycroft stood up, "Alistair take your sister and wait outside," he told his son. The young boy nodded, setting his books aside and rushing to collect his baby sister of whom he was rather protective.  
Once the door had been closed he turned his sharp gaze upon his PA, "What happened?" he demanded. All manner of terrible things crossed his mind. She had passed out from malnutrition- what with a baby to feed and after the pregnancy all together that wasn't too far out there. She had complained of being sore earlier was that a sign of something more? Before the idea of his wife being shot and hospitalized crossed his mind he was interrupted.  
Anthea's hands came together in front of her, "It seems there was an accident sir, a likely drunken man passed through a red light and hit the driver's side of your wife's car. They're freeing her from the vehicle now sir, but it's unlikely that she's still alive."

When Mycroft was a child he'd looked upon his parent's marriage and thought it perfect and that maybe, _maybe_, he'd want that for himself someday.  
Linda and Christopher Holmes had seemed so endlessly happy. But then he'd come downstairs one night and heard them arguing. Loudly. Very, very loudly! And filled with so much venom. He'd realized the harsh truth of any relationship, there was no such thing as perfection. People would scream at each other, they'd argue, they'd die. Time proved all of this true. No friendship was safe from an argument; no romance was free of one thing that made them hate each other-just a little bit. Besides, what was the point? In the eye of a teenaged Mycroft and onward, he'd deemed it a waste of time.  
Isabelle had proven how wrong he was.  
Perhaps Mycroft would never fully understand the true joy that came from another human being, be it a child, a spouse, a best friend- someone you've met on the internet or in person. Or even an animal as stupid as they were. He knew he would never understand the complexities or the real reason behind needing something like that in your life. But Isabelle had brought him _so_ close. And she was dead.

He barely listened as Anthea told him the address of the crash site; he merely followed her out of his office where he gathered his children (being so kindly watched over by Pierce) and made his way to the car waiting outside. It was Bastian this time who would drive him. The young man had taken a second of pure grief when he'd heard of where he was to drive his employer, but not so long as to be stalling the inevitable.  
Police cars, ambulances, and a firetruck were at the scene. The vehicles were a terrible mesh, Isabelle's being worse than the much bigger vehicle that had struck her. One of the ambulances' sirens wailed as the man (who would later be identified as Andrew Simmons) that had hit Isabelle was taken to intensive care.  
Isabelle was already on a stretcher, but there was no rush to take her away.  
Mycroft pushed his way through the crowd, introducing himself to the paramedics as her husband as well as someone that could have them imprisoned if he didn't get to see her _now!_  
Isabelle's eyes were closed when he saw her. Her lips parted just barely, a trail of dried blood collected at the corners of her mouth. Her forehead had a purplish bruise from when her forehead had struck the steering wheel, further inspection proved her neck to likely be broken. Bits of debris had either lodged themselves in her arms or had merely cut across her pale freckled skin.  
Mycroft collected her cold hand and pressed a kiss against the back, "What has happened to you?" he whispered against her knuckles. With care let her hand fall over her stomach, and he stepped back as the paramedics collected her to be taken to the morgue.

He'd turned to see Bastian tear eyed and grim looking for someone so normally cheery and uplifted. Mycroft could barely bring himself to feel anything, not with everyone looking. Instead he focused upon the more important things. Her sisters would need to be contacted, as well as Madelyn and the co-worker's she'd known.  
Without thought he'd found his phone in his pocket and he speed-dialed the first number on his contacts list.

"What do you want Mycroft, I already have a case. An eight, so I'm hardly going to-"  
"Sherlock."  
"What?" his brother's voice had softened in mild concern, Mycroft realized that his own voice must have shaken. "She's dead Sherlock… she died."  
"Mycr-"

And he hung up.

For the days that followed Mycroft felt as though he was surrounded by a dense fog- which wasn't too out there for living in England. His normally brilliant brain had been bogged down by the loss of Isabelle. He never cried, no matter how terrible he felt. But he also allowed things to pass him by, information and facts. He didn't care.  
And then one morning, he'd woken up to Lillian's crying. Everything snapped into place. He couldn't do this! Not with his two children. Not with the work that he did. Mycroft forced Isabelle out of his mind as best he could for the sake of what he deemed to be normalcy. Safety. Solidity.  
Of course people didn't like this. He was doing it "wrong" apparently. People seemed slightly disconcerted by the fact that he didn't look "sad" enough.  
Bastian had been the only one to come out and say it. That had been highly uncomfortable a situation. He appreciated that the younger man cared, but he really hadn't gone about it right.

Sherlock had.

Mycroft had thought of his wife, not the grief that her death caused. He remembered what she was to him, not her death. He felt suddenly more peaceful than he'd ever been after something so startlingly simple.

* * *

Mycroft stood before the grave of Isabelle Holmes. The air around him was still, and everything was silent save for the occasional twitter of some far off bird.

He stared. What else could he do? His hand eventually found the cold stone, tracing along the hard edge with his palm.  
"I have been told," he started, feeling incredibly stupid, "That speaking to the grave of the deceased party can be very cathartic," he cleared his throat.  
He sighed turning his gaze elsewhere to gather what little he wanted to say. "I couldn't argue with the logic behind it," Mycroft continued uselessly, "I of course doubt that I need this…"  
Isabelle would have rolled her eyes, taken his arm and urged him to open up more, to _let her in_. With that thought he shoved his hands into his pockets and ducked his head, "I do miss you. Of course. I am raising Lillian and Alistair alone and working endlessly. They are with my parents for the time being, under my request rather than theirs I will have you know," he sniffed disdainfully, "They are good with them. Good enough at the very least. I suppose I needed time… as most do."

Good lord this was getting him nowhere!

Mycroft shifted his stance, tense and uncomfortable with the whole situation. What does one say to their dead wife?  
"You see My Dear, y- you shouldn't have done this… I had so many things planned. I was determined to live the rest of my life with you, I insisted upon it. But you changed the plan-always trying to break the mold," he smirked coldly, "Of course I don't blame you. I blame that Simmons fellow, and he's going to jail for his troubles or lack thereof," he looked dangerous just then. He remembered the look of his subordinates the day after. Anthea delivered the news that Andrew Simmons had lived in front of a group. One of them had stood forward and offered to have the man's pain killers removed! Mycroft had forced himself not to smile thankfully at the offer instead he told them not to, he would likely suffer for what he did later.

A tear trailed halfway down his cheek before he raised a hand to casually swipe it away with one finger.  
"I recall that upon our first meeting I made you cry. Now look..." he stopped to breathe in shakily, "Look what you've done," a smile barely formed out of his mouth.  
He cleared his throat, unused to such painful emotion  
"I should never have approached you," he continued unabashedly, "that day. I should have said nothing to you, certainly not have invited you to eat with me. It would have saved me the trouble wouldn't it?" his hand yet again found the cold surface of her gravestone and he let it rest there as though he was reaching out to hold her hand.  
"I don't know if you realize how much I cherished you My Dear. How I wanted to keep you safe, how much I wanted control your life just to do that. I treasured you... I still do."

_Oh Myc..._

His vision was heavily blurred but he didn't dare close his eyes to release the tears that had welled up, "I must remain strong for our children and for everyone I serve... so I won't think of you often My Dear. Not if I can help it."  
Mycroft's fingers curled beneath his palm, perfectly trimmed fingernails digging into soft flesh. Why was he doing this? Torturing himself? Isabelle was gone and she certainly couldn't hear him. Still he felt more at rest with each pained word that passed his lips, "I never really did say what you wanted to hear. Although you told me that it didn't matter. It doesn't, it never will. But I shall say it for you anyways, because I otherwise will not feel satisfied that I've done what I came here to do." A cool breeze filled the silence with the light tinkling of leaves, like natural wind chimes.

"I don't believe there was a single moment where I didn't feel at peace with you, even when you were yelling at me. So I will say it now, and I will mean it to the best of my abilities."  
Mycroft let his hand fall back to his side. He steeled himself for the sentiment that he promised himself he would never utter, that he thought himself incapable of.

"I love you."

With an air of finality he swiped away the last tear that had made its way down his cheek, "And I demand an apology because you made this happen."  
He leant down and pressed a kiss against the stone, then stood tall yet again. Shoulders stiff he inclined his head, "Goodbye My Dear."

* * *

"Daddy?"

Mycroft blinked several times, "I'm sorry, I was…thinking," he cleared his throat embarrassedly. He'd just been in the process of describing the car crash and the chaos around it when he'd suddenly trailed off. Lily had been concerned then very annoyed when she realized he wasn't going to say anything more. So she waited, huffing petulantly as though she had somewhere better to be.  
"Is that all?" she asked, pulling her skirt over her knees. Her father considered this, "There are a number of stories that I'm sure you've never heard, but I'm not going to tell them any time soon," he smirked. Lillian sighed, "Ok, I guess…I guess I'm satisfied," she mumbled.  
Mycroft sat up from behind his desk and placed a kiss against the part in her hair as he so often did, "Thank you."  
Lily did indeed feel satisfied with the stories she had just heard. Maybe her mother was not terribly missed; maybe she would never truly understand who Isabelle was. But she knew enough. She felt just a little bit of the loss. Of what could have been, and she was happy with that. Lily decided that she could go on with life. Of course, there were always more stories to be told…

"You know, I saw this picture in Uncle Sherlock's bedroom of the two of you when you were kids. What exactly happened there? Why all the animosity?" a sly grin spread across her face.  
Mycroft looked annoyed, "No."

"Oh come on, I have a right to know!"

"No you do not, get out of my office."

"Come on Daddy, maybe it would help if you let it all out!"

"_Lillian Rosalie- Sophia Holmes_."

"Uhg, fine! I'll just find out some other way!"

She never did.

~ FIN

* * *

**IT IS DONE!**

**Making Mycroft grieve his dead spouse was a hard thing to do especially with the whole "Caring is not an Advantage" spiel. It's like, he would keep it all in and he would resent the fact that he found Isabelle only to lose her and "ARG, this is what always happens!" but also he had to come to peace with it a little? I don't know. He's complex, I am not. There is a problem there. Lol**

**A HUGE thank you to everyone that has Followed, Fav'd, and Reviewed! You are awesome, thank you so much! I didn't expect to get more than like five people to read this. Turns out I got 11,739 overall views (Not including this chapter obviously)! Thank you for reading, I had a story to tell (as flawed as it may be) and I'm glad I told it. Again, thanks!**

**Please be kind and leave one final review! (Need some help? How about "Wow this is the best thing I've ever read in my life! You are the best writer ever and I wish I was as cool as you!"…No? Ok, whatever you'd like then. Lol)**

**Oh, and watch me for more MycroftxIsabelle oneshots! (Such as "Letters" which is currently in progress *Wink wink nudge nudge*) **


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